


Aeternum

by MDB2005



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Demons, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mages and Templars, Magical Realism, Sexual Content, Vampires, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-03-29 01:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 33,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13916664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDB2005/pseuds/MDB2005
Summary: Cross posted on Fanfiction.net. Now posting here as well. Supernatural AU, Johnlock, M/M (Explicit) Season 1 Sherlock is a hunter of dark creatures. When John appears in the morgue at St. Bart's, things are not as they first appear. What lies hidden in the darkness? Warnings for violence and dark themes. No Beta, not brit picked, please excuse any errors. Disclaimer: I own no character rights and make no profit. Reviews welcome.





	1. Chapter 1

Aeternum

(Eternal)

Chapter 1

Lux in Tenebris

(Light in Darkness)

Greg Lestrade

Greg took a long drag off of his cigarette holding it for a moment in order to savor the familiar burn feeling his tension lessen before releasing a plume of smoke into the air with a tired sigh. He really should quit. Bad habits had a way of catching up to you. He was getting too old for this. Greg let the comforting weight of the relic around his neck soothe him. It was no ordinary necklace for inside the small pendant was a chip of bone belonging to St. Jude the Apostle, the patron saint of lost causes. It served as one of his most powerful wards, an ordination gift given to him by his long deceased mentor, it had been passed down amongst their order for centuries. His eyes drifted over the blood stained church. Those words were too familiar, eerily familiar. The words on the church's floor haunted him bringing back memories that he would rather forget. How had he gotten here? How had he become a wayward priest? It had been a long journey with many twists and turns that had led him here. He was an unlikely savior, a priest whose faith was tested daily, yet he still remained one of the last of his kind, one of the few trained and able to fight the darkness.

He had been raised in London by French ex-pats. Both of his parents had been devout Catholics. Ironically, Greg had rebelled against the arcane rules and rituals within the church and though he was sent to Catholic school and served as an alter boy, he had lacked true faith as a youth. In order to avoid world war three with his family, Greg had simply gone through the motions from baptism, to communion, to confirmation at the age of 14. Sometimes he wondered how he had made it through the Catholic school system without being expelled. He smiled as he remembered nicking the sacramental wine before the service and having a pleasant buzz throughout the mass. No one had caught on. He never missed a cue. He had cut his catechism classes whenever possible. The Enchiridion had been unbearably dull, but he had always managed to pass his exams with flying colors, even classes that most other students failed, like Latin. That subject had been one of the few that Greg had enjoyed and because he was fluent in French he took to it naturally. The history of it fascinated him; the Roman Empire had been a thing of awe in its prime. It also helped that Greg had been fond of the teacher, Father Giuseppe Tragillio, who would later become his mentor. Unlike most priests, the old Sicilian had a wicked sense of humor laced with dark undertones and sarcasm.

Even with his parents urging, Greg was sure that if it hadn't been for that horrific encounter, he would have likely eventually fallen away from the church and become just another lapsed Catholic, but God had other plans. Libera nos a malo. Deliver us from Evil. Evil existed and Greg had seen it for the first time that night, the night that had changed his life forever.

He had been 15 at the time and his mother at come to visit him at school over the weekend. His father had died the year before and they had both taken it hard. His mother had promised to come visit more often and Greg had appreciated the gesture. They had been walking back to the Cathedral after going out for a late dinner on their way to Greg's dorm. They passed by the graveyard and were nearly to the church when it happened. His mother had screamed as something knocked her down moving at lightening speed. Her screams quickly faded and were replaced by choked gasps and wet rattling wheezes. Greg had screamed and watched in horror as his mother was bitten on the neck and the creature pinned her down and drank her blood. "Stop!" He had pulled the thing off of his mother and when he met its eyes his blood had run cold. The yellow irises and slit pupils were disorienting, but what had been worse was the inhuman hiss that had escaped from the creature's mouth as it opened wide. Long razor sharp fangs dripping with blood glinted at him. Greg had let go and backed up horrified. Water was flung at them hitting both Greg and the creature and the creature hissed in pain as the sickening smell of burning flesh cloaked the air.

"Gregory, Run! Get into the church, it can't touch you there!" The familiar voice of Father Tragillio warned. Greg didn't think twice and for once did as the old Sicilian priest ordered without question. As he crossed the threshold of the church, he looked back and was shocked by what he saw. The priest came at the creature head on and as it lunged at him making a grab for his throat with its dark claws, Father pulled a wooden stake with a sharpened tip from under his cassock and plunged it into the creatures heart. After a pained screech, it disintegrated to dust as if it had never been. Greg heard Father whisper. "Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus." May almighty God have mercy upon you. Father had then crouched down next to his mother, after checking for a pulse, he shook his head and sighed deeply and murmured in a pained voice "Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum" May the peace of the Lord be always with you. Greg began to shake and his breathing and heart rate doubled as the reality of what he had just witnessed hit him fully. His mother was dead, killed by what appeared to be a vampire.

Father Tragillio made the sign of the cross and murmured something so low that Greg couldn't catch it over his mother's body. He took the stake and craved unfamiliar symbols into the ground around his mother's body, which pulsed and glowed softly before fading away. He then got up slowly looking as if each movement caused him pain. He turned towards Greg and made his way into the church looking, not haunted as one might expect, but tired and weary. "I'm sorry, Gregory. I came too late for your mother, but I promise you her soul is now safe from darkness." His thick Sicilian accent colored his words and diction, the extra vowels making it sound almost musical.

"Father…what was that?" Greg asked looking the old priest in the eye and shivering at the intense gaze, which the man pinned him with.

"Gregory…you have two choices. You can forget everything that you just saw and live in ignorance as the majority of people do or you can learn the truth, but to know the truth I need something from you." Greg swallowed around the lump in his throat before answering.

"What?" Greg asked in a voice that wavered with emotion. Father sighed and rather than answer he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from inside his cassock and lit up taking a deep drag. After a moment of surprise at the sight of Father smoking, Greg felt his anger building, not at Father, the man had done his best, but at the thing that had killed his mother, leaving him alone in the world without a single relative left, both of his grandparents were dead and he was an only child. He had to know what that thing was. He had to know if his suspicions were true.

"A vow." Father answered. Greg raised an eyebrow prompting him to continue. "And an oath of loyalty. Gregory, have you ever considered joining the priesthood? There is an ancient order, which has nearly been forgotten. I am one of the few that remain." Greg couldn't hold back a laugh because, frankly, the idea was absurd. Greg become a priest? Greg couldn't think of anyone less qualified for that calling than him.

"Father, I hate to tell you this, but I don't have faith. Don't you need faith to become a priest?" Greg asked in a hollow voice feeling hopelessness and grief overcome him. Alone, he was utterly alone at the age of 15.

"Faith can build with time, my son. You have just seen evil tonight, but know that there is a balance to everything. Goodness and evil are everywhere even within you. Lux in Tenebris. Light in darkness. Greg bit his lip and let Father's words sink in. He had nowhere to go and no family left. What did he have to lose? If it didn't work out, he could always quit.

"Father…I need to know the truth and if that means taking religious vows then so be it. But remember, I did warn you. I'll be a lousy priest." The old man smiled and answered softly.

"That, my son, remains to be seen." It was that same night that Greg learned the truth about the world and about the evils that lay hidden in the shadows and the few that hunted them.

Greg coughed and pulled himself from his musing. He had work to do. He had been called upon to investigate a weeping statue, which the people had proclaimed to be a miracle that had been drawing a small but steady pilgrimage. Greg wished that he had been called sooner, the church had only decided that it was worth investigating after a number of people committed suicide within the statue's presence. Greg looked around the empty church. The alter was still stained with the blood of one of the victims. The blood splatter from the gunshot arched up onto the large crucifix. This was no miracle, of that much he was certain, there was something unnatural afoot, however. What it was exactly, he couldn't say. The marble statue of the Virgin Mary stood with blood stained tear tracks running down its full length that blood pooled at the feet. Greg ran his finger down one of the trails and whispered "Hic est sanguinis mei." This is my blood. The blood turned black. No miracle, quite the opposite. Below the puddle, the familiar Latin phrase Lux in Tenebris was spelled out in blood. Light in darkness. Ancient runes surrounded the statue. Greg squinted and studied them but couldn't place their origin or translate them. That was unusual. Greg had a knack for languages and it was very rare for him to come across something that he couldn't at least partially translate. He moved towards the holy water font and scooped up a palm full. He splashed it over the runes causing them to smoke and sizzle as the smell of brimstone filled the air. "Demon," Greg murmured under his breath as he glanced around warily clutching the heavy beads of his rosary made of pure silver, which lay concealed within the folds of his cassock.

Greg was one of the few priests left that was trained in the ancient ways of the occult. Few knew that the lore was based in truth. There were things not of this world, which were hidden from most, both good and evil; the darkness and the light. They were the things of nightmares and fairytales, which had long ago faded into legend: angels, demons, vampires, zombies, sprites, elves, witches, mages and hunters. Greg's eyes moved to the stain glass windows to the outer buttresses; their ledges were empty. The gargoyles had fled, another bad omen. The sentinels of the church only came to life when something evil slipped in. They only moved at night and with the sun high in the sky and the ledges empty, it was safe to assume that they were gone, never to return. It took something of great power to take down a gargoyle. Greg would need help with this one and he knew just who to call. Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sicut erat in principio

(As it was in the beginning)

John Watson

Fallen Angel. He had fallen from heaven for interfering. Grigori were watchers. While many considered them guardians, they were impotent, forced to watch their charges fall into danger. They were not to act, only observe and report, but he had never been good at following orders and now he was paying the price. After seeing hundreds under his watch be taken by death to meet their final destiny whether that be heaven or hell, he thought that he was immune to caring. But he was wrong; the girl had proven that. His other charges were taken naturally, there were no dark forces twisting the rules. When the demon attacked, he had snapped. The girl was innocent. He had saved the small girl from the demon. Where was the balance if one side would not play by the rules? He had used his sword to strike it down before it could steal her soul. The Arch Angel Michael had in turn struck him down burying his sword into his left shoulder as punishment for his disobedience. He had sacrificed everything, his power, his wings and nearly all of his grace.

He had been cast out of heaven and into this human's body. John Watson, that was who he was now. He had been thrust into this human's body just as his soul was departing allowing his grace fill the void. He was now in possession all of the man's memories as well as his strengths and weakness. He was now just like any other human, but for the small bit of grace that he still possessed. It was the angelic equivalent of a human soul. It was the very essence of his being, without it he would cease to exist.

He had awoken on the battlefield in Afghanistan with a bullet in his shoulder amongst utter chaos. Bill Murray's voice echoed in his mind. Hold on, John! He had looked into Murray's worried eyes as he squinted against the sun's blinding rays as gunfire rained down upon them and sand kicked up causing the scene to become hazy giving it an almost dreamlike appearance. He could recall with stunning clarity the sound of his own harsh breathing and the erratic pounding of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears as Murray applied pressure to gunshot wound on John's shoulder as his life's blood stained the sand red. John wondered if Murray would be the last thing that he would ever see. John could remember moaning in pain and praying and calling out. "Please, God let me live." Why cast him out and down to earth only to allow him to die? Was this not supposed to act as a test; a way to earn back his all of his grace and if he was good enough, maybe, just maybe, earn back his place in heaven when death finally came for him? His wings were gone for all eternity, but his soul could still be saved. John's back burned as a living tattoo formed in the shape of his wings, a constant reminder of that which he could never hope to have again.

It turned out that John Watson was a fighter. He had survived against all odds. The gunshot wound had become infected and John had fallen into a coma after battling septic shock. Miraculously, he had started to rally and slowly improved. The rehab had been hell. A second surgery had been required to try to remove some of the thick scar tissue, which had formed and severely limited his range of motion. Finally after months of treatment he was released on a meager army pension with nowhere to go. John had gone back to London, and rented a small bedsit. He had been applying for jobs, but people were reluctant to hire a surgeon with an intermittent tremor in his dominant hand. He was running low on funds and getting desperate. He nearly called his sister but decided to wait until his funds ran completely out before taking that option.

John had been walking down the street after another fruitless interview when he had passed a man on a bench who called him by name. John looked at the man, but didn't immediately recognize him. It was after speaking to him that he realized that it was Mike Stamford. Mike had been friendly and offered to recommend him for an interview at the A&E at Bart's and when John had mentioned that he was looking for a flatmate Mike had eluded to knowing someone who might be appropriate.

John Watson sighed as he made his way towards St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He had an interview for a locum position at their A&E. It had been a stroke of luck that he had run into an old colleague of his, Mike Stamford, who recommended him for the job. John smiled things were finally looking up. He tried to ignore the ache in his leg and the stiffness in his left shoulder in an attempt to focus on the positive. Not only did John have a job within reach, but also he was going to meet a potential flatmate after his interview. It seemed a bit mad, really, moving in with a complete stranger, but John really had nothing to lose at this point. He chuckled as he recalled meeting Sherlock Holmes for the first time in the Morgue at Bart's.

Initially, John had been distracted. He had been taken by surprise when he first met Dr. Molly Hooper, the pathologist who led them down to the morgue. Necromancer, despite that, John sensed no darkness in her, which was most unusual. Necromancers, for the most part were dark, but not always, so it seemed. The bit of grace that remained in John allowed him to see what most others could not, the supernatural creatures, both light and dark, which roamed the earth. It was just enough to give him the sight, but not so much that it rendered him unable to pass as human to other supernatural beings. Before John could contemplate what to make of her, his eyes shifted to the man in the room.

He was tall and lean with raven curls. The man had been beating a corpse with a riding crop. When John first saw him, it left him wondering what the hell was going on. He had been shocked silent at the scene before his eyes. The whistle and snap of the riding crop against the dead flesh was the only thing breaking the silence. He had paused and turned to Molly with a request, which sounded more like an order. "Text me what bruises form within the next twenty minutes the man's alibi depends on it." The pathologist had nodded looking a bit put off at the tone.

Mike had cleared his throat causing the man to turn towards them. John had stared at his otherworldly grey-green eyes in awe as he had raked his intense gaze over John. There was something about him, something that John couldn't quite put his finger on. He was human, of that John was sure, but there was something that he was missing. "May I borrow your phone?" The man asked in a deep baritone eyeing John then sitting down at the microscope.

"Sure," John replied handing it over and the man had murmured his thanks under his breath before asking.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man glanced at him expectantly.

John cleared his throat and asked. "I'm sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man repeated with a hint of amusement.

"Afghanistan." John replied looking confused. "How did you know that? You told him about me?" John asked Stamford looking bewildered.

"Not a word." Mike confessed.

The deductions flew at him at lightening speed, leaving John reeling and utterly speechless.

The man smirked and replied. "Deduction. How do you feel about the violin? Sometimes I don't talk for days? Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. "

"Flatmates? I don't know anything about you. I don't even your name." John complained with a huff.

"Name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker's Street." The man stated with a wink as he slipped out the door followed by Molly Hooper. John looked at Mike in disbelief and Mike only smirked and said.

"Yeah, he's always like that." John shook his head wondering what he was getting himself into. "Come on then, I'll introduce you to Sarah, she's the head doc in the A&E. John followed as Mike led the way.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Martha Hudson

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

(Who will guard the guardians?)

Martha Hudson hummed softly as she placed the chicken bones into the satchel completing the gris-gris charm. She refreshed the lines of salt along the door and window frames in order to ward off evil. Sherlock had his own protective wards including charms and runes, but one more couldn't hurt. She slipped the satchel under the skull on the mantel and nearly fell backwards when a small sprite appeared from inside it. "Bollocks!" She exclaimed. "How did you get in here?" She recognized this one. Sherlock and the fairy had an arrangement. The fairy traded information for various odds and ends that Sherlock was able to provide. She didn't know its name, but that was no surprise as to the Fay, there was great power in ones true name.

It was one of the many reasons why Sherlock went by his middle, rather than his proper first name of William. "I hope Sherlock is expecting you, you little bugger!" She warned seriously. The sprite didn't answer, only flittered about aimlessly as Martha glared at it. Too bad Voodoo was ineffective against fairies. It called to the darker creatures like demons, lost spirits, and zombies.

She had learned the art of Voodoo when she was married to her first husband in America when they had lived deep in the heart of the Louisiana bayou. She smiled as she recalled meeting the Voodoo queen, Madame Yvette. In exchange for a fee, she had been willing to teach Martha everything she knew and it had served her well. When her drug trafficking husband became abusive, she had made him pay. The doll was still buried deep in the swamp with his body before the gators had gotten to it. She moved to Florida shortly after and remarried. When that marriage went down in flames and her second husband was arrested, she had gone back to England before suspicion built where she used the drug money from her first marriage to buy the building on Baker's Street. When Sherlock Holmes had ensured her husbands conviction she had been so pleased. She swore off relationships and settled down in London offering Sherlock the flat to show her appreciation.

Sherlock was a hunter of dark creatures. He knew all the dangers and was very good at what he did. He could have been a great mage like his brother Mycroft, but had instead chosen to hunt without the aid of magic. Mycroft Holmes, Martha shuddered. He was one of the few individuals that terrified her. He was powerful beyond words and ruthless in his pursuits. Luckily, he never practiced black magic, which for someone of his power level was nearly unheard of, especially for a self taught human. He rivaled some of the greatest mages ever known. His skill level led to rumors that the Holmes brother's had Fay blood in them, somewhere on their father's side. Their paternal grandmother had come from Ireland, home of the Aes sidhe. Martha had once asked Sherlock if there was any truth to the stories and he had simply stated in a voice laced with sarcasm that no two parents as dull as theirs could be anything but fully human. Martha hadn't known exactly what to make of that, but it was clear that Sherlock did not care to discuss the matter further. Martha had learned early on not to push the hunter lest she wanted more bullet holes in her wall. She was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of the door opening. Sherlock walked in looking pleased as punch. "Army doctor could be useful, very useful indeed." Martha frowned not sure what Sherlock was going on about.

"Who is an army doctor Sherlock?" She asked. Before he could answer, Sherlock's attention was pulled away by the small sprite that had managed to stow away in the flat.

"Tink, come to barter?" Sherlock asked with a smug look. The sprite landed on Sherlock's shoulder and murmured into his ear so softly that Martha was unable to make out what it had said.

"I'll call you whatever I please, unless of course you'll tell me your true name?" Sherlock goaded. The sprite remained silent knowing Sherlock had her beaten on that front. "Now what is it you want?" The sprite again whispered into Sherlock's ear. "I have it, but what do I get in return?" The little sprite replied quietly and Sherlock's smile widened. "You have a deal." Sherlock then disappeared into his room and when he returned the sprite was gone.

"Do I even want to know?" Martha asked looking worried.

"No," Sherlock replied before changing the subject. "John Watson"

"Who?" Martha questioned growing more confused. Sherlock sighed.

"Mrs. Hudson, do try to keep up, I was telling you about the army doctor. His name is John Watson and I've offered him a flat share and he'll be here this afternoon." Martha's eyes widened in surprise. Flatmate? Sherlock thought most people were idiots and when not on a case or on a hunt, he, as a rule tended to avoid company for the most part. Sherlock sensed her thoughts and answered before she could voice the question.

"I'm getting tired of talking to the skull." He explained. "He didn't scare easily in the morgue, even with the riding crop. I've got a good feeling about this one."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes

Cogito, ergo sum

(I think, therefore I am)

Sherlock followed Mrs. Hudson up the stairs with John on his heels as their made their way up to 221B. Sherlock opened the door to the flat while Mrs. Hudson moved into the kitchen and started making tea. "Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper." She warned both Sherlock and John. Sherlock glanced at John taking in the deep frown on his face as he glanced around the flat for the first time. Sherlock looked around and belatedly realized the he should have tidied up. There was clutter everywhere, everything from clippings and papers to charms and wards, weapons, and everything in between.

"Obviously, I can straighten up a bit." Sherlock placated. John's expression morphed to one of confusion and then to suspicion as he moved about the flat, picking up a wooden stake and the jar of holy water beside it.

"What are these?" John asked as he continued to survey the room his eyes landing on he skull on the mantelpiece.

"Experiments," Sherlock replied evasively.

"Experiments?" John asked raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"Of course!" Sherlock insisted attempting to look innocent.

"Is that a skull?" John asked as he continued to stare at it in disbelief.

"Friend of mine." Sherlock muttered under his breath causing John's frown to return.

"What exactly do you do?" John asked as his eyes took in every tool of the trade scattered all over the flat.

"Consulting…detective. When the unexplainable happens, the met often gives me a ring." Sherlock replied evasively clearing his throat as John narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Detective?" John asked disbelief coloring his words.

"Are you just going to repeat everything that I say? Don't be dull John." Sherlock implored. He could practically see John putting the pieces together; perhaps he wasn't as idiotic as the rest of humanity.

"What are you hunting?" John inquired. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise as John deduced his true calling. Few humans knew of the existence of supernatural creatures and the ones who hunted them.

"What do you know about hunting?" Sherlock asked fishing for information trying to figure out where in John's background he may have come across the little known knowledge. John smirked happy to have gotten one over on him. Gloating bugger, Sherlock thought bitterly. He would get the whole story. It was only a matter of time. As he plotted his next move, his phone buzzed with a text. His eyes widened when he saw that it was from Lestrade. The priest was good, very good. He didn't ask for assistance often. This would be a least a nine.

"Case, I have to cut this short I'm afraid. Have a cup of tea. Make yourself at home." Sherlock said as he gathered up a few tools. He reached for the doorknob then paused turning to John.

"You're a doctor, an army doctor." He said in a considering voice.

"Yes." John replied looking a bit annoyed at him for pointing out the obvious.

"Any good?" Sherlock continued gently probing.

"Very good." John insisted a hint of pride in his voice.

"Seen a lot of injuries, violent deaths?" Sherlock implied.

"Yes, of course." John confirmed.

"Seen your share of trouble?" Sherlock questioned.

"Enough for a lifetime." John whispered looking a bit haunted for a moment

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock invited.

"Oh God, yes." The haunted look faded away and in its place came determination and a hint of exhilaration.

Sherlock smiled and pulled something from around his neck handing it to John. John looked down at the necklace. It was a small stone carving in the shape of the Eye of Ra. A protective ward, John slipped it around his neck with a nod of thanks. "One more thing, John." Sherlock insisted. He then pulled something from his pocket and placed it into John's hand. "For your Browning." John looked down and three silver bullets lay in his hand. John shook his head in awe of both Sherlock's deductive skill and his gull.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Greg Lestrade

Alea iacta est

(The die is cast)

Greg frowned as Sherlock approached the church with another unfamiliar man in tow. Sherlock typically worked alone. Greg narrowed his eyes, as he looked the man over critically. He was unremarkable, about 5'6, medium build, and sandy blond hair with a few streaks of grey at the temples, and dark blue indigo colored eyes. The man appeared human, but Greg had learned long ago that appearances could be deceiving. He clutched the bottle of holy water concealed in his cassock and twisted the cap opened. He then threw it in the man's face causing him to sputter and shout indignantly. "Bloody Hell! Are you mad?"

"John, please excuse Lestrade. He's a bit paranoid." Sherlock said then looked at Lestrade pointedly asking "Satisfied?" Greg nodded feeling a bit sheepish, but he couldn't regret it. His paranoia had saved his life more times than he could count.

"Sorry about that, mate, but I had to be sure." Greg begrudgingly apologized. The man glared at him as he wiped the water off of his face.

"This is Father Gregory Lestrade. He's the one who called me with the case. Lestrade, this is my new assistant, Dr. John Watson." Sherlock introduced. Greg shot Sherlock a disbelieving look before objecting.

"Sherlock…you can't just bring anyone here. You know that I only call you for 'special cases.' I'm sorry to have wasted your time doctor, but you'll have to leave now." Greg insisted. The doctor then tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as his gaze swept over Greg from head to toe.

"Honor guard? I didn't think there were any knights left. I assumed the church had stopped training its priests in the occult. You're somewhat of a dying breed, there are so few of you left, such a shame." John murmured looking at Greg with an expression of melancholy. Greg's jaw dropped in shock.

"Sherlock! How could you…" Greg sputtered furiously.

"I didn't tell him, Lestrade. I give you my word. I would never betray you like that." Sherlock interjected before continuing. "He deduced that I was a hunter after looking at my flat. He's no goldfish."

"Met your match, eh?" Greg snapped feeling more than a bit unnerved. "Who are you?" Greg asked looking at John Watson with new eyes. There was something different about him that Greg couldn't put his finger on. Greg closed his eyes and concentrated reaching out with his senses but hitting a wall, it wasn't Sherlock's ward, which the doctor wore around his neck that was doing it. No, it was something more powerful and ancient, Greg was about to push harder when the ward around his neck pulsed slightly, an ominous warning to stop. Greg heeded it and stared at the man making it clear that he knew he was hiding something.

"I'm nobody, just an army doctor wounded in Afghanistan." John murmured looking at the ground.

He's lying Greg can see it plain as day, but Sherlock shook his head emphatically making a leave it gesture. Greg wavered finally deciding to let it go for now, at least he knew that the doctor was human.

"Come on, then. I'll show you the scene." Greg acquiesced. He turned and led them through the entrance towards the bloody statue and the alter. Greg watched Sherlock scan the scene with his eyes without moving a muscle. "Demon."

"Aye, that's as far as I got, then I hit a dead end. I'll tell you one thing though it had to be powerful, the gargoyles are gone." Greg explained. Sherlock nodded as he glanced at the empty buttresses.

"Do you recognize the runes?" Greg asked. "I couldn't place them. They aren't of Egyptian, Mayan, Aramaic, Greek or Roman origin." Sherlock frowned deeply and shook his head.

"I've never seen these before." Sherlock admitted looking frustrated.

"I think I know why." John Watson claimed as he bent down and said something in a language that Greg didn't recognize. He then touched the runes causing them to glow for a moment. Both Greg and Sherlock looked on clearly stunned.

"Just as I thought, they're enchanted with demonic wards which hide their true meaning. I'm sorry I can't tell you more. Only the demon who made them, or someone skilled in black magic can break the enchantment." John Watson said as he leaned on his cane as he got up.

"What language were you speaking? What did you just say?" Greg insisted. 

"A very old one." John answered and turned away going to the statue and dipping his finger into the blood, which still ran from the eyes. He then whispered something in the strange lilting language. John smiled as it glowed briefly. "They forgot to enchant the blood. You're looking for a succubus, but they didn't work alone. Something else was here. The succubus came first and created the weeping statue. It was simply looking for meals. Sex demons favor churches for some odd reason. Later, another more powerful demon came after and made the runes, which caused the suicides. It wanted to steal souls.

"The element of the profane heightens their pleasure leading to a more satisfying feed." Sherlock replied answering John's question regarding the succubus before trailing off. "John, how did you…"

"You could have solved it, Sherlock. You would have tested the blood. It would have just taken you longer. I only saved you some time." John said ignoring Sherlock's question and turning to Greg.

"Close the church until the runes are removed or the suicides will continue. You're lucky your wards held, Father. The longer you're exposed the greater the pull." John warned. "We should go. Track the succubus. It may know something." John then turned and left the church as Greg and Sherlock followed both of them stunned and a bit in awe.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

John Watson

Non timebo Mala

(I shall fear no evil)

John made his way back from Tesco's with a couple of bags of groceries in hand. The state of Sherlock's fridge had been abysmal. John had insisted he clean it and move all the experiments into one of the small crisper drawers. Sherlock had complained but given in when John threaten not to stay. He was currently scrubbing the fridge down after throwing half of its contents into the rubbish bin. As he passed the phone booth it rung, John ignored it not paying it any mind. He continued on attempting unsuccessful in his attempt to hail a cab and as he passed another booth it rung again causing him to frown. He decided to answer it this time.

"Hello?" He greeted feeling a bit foolish.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" The voice asked.

"Who is this?" John asked now feeling unnerved.

"Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?" The voice continued. John looked up and watched the camera move and focus on him, before turning in the opposite direction. "There's another on the building opposite you."

"How are you doing this?" John demanded.

"Get into the car, Dr. Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." The voice insisted before hanging up leaving John stunned as a black unmarked car pulled up beside him. John reluctantly got in.

There was a woman sitting in the back seat typing quickly on a blackberry. She was lovely with chestnut hair and light golden brown eyes with full lips and a pert nose. She was dressed professionally and didn't even look at him as he sat down and studied her carefully. She looked perfectly human, but she wasn't. There was a magical aura surrounding her that only a few were able to recognize. Witch, what's more, a natural witch rather than a self taught human. Her power came from within rather than from spells. Witches, like mages, ran the spectrum, they could be light, dark or fall somewhere in between. "Hello, what's your name, then?" John asked trying to get a feel for her.

"Anthea." She replied not bothering to meet his eyes. His eyes moved to the gold band on her right ring finger. He could make out the enchanted runes and symbols craved into the band. More wards, he thought, Powerful one. She didn't make the ring; it was given to her. The magical signature attached to it didn't match hers. "Is that your real name?" John asked.

"No." She confirmed. John wasn't surprised. Of course, she would know to never give your true name to a stranger.

"John." He said breaking the silence.

"Yes, I know." She answered. She had him at a bit of an advantage. He stretched moving his hand to the small of his back to check his Browning, which was hidden under his jacket. The silver bullets were now in the chamber. It gave him an added feeling of security.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" John asked hoping to gather some more information, but not optimistic regarding his potential success.

"None at all, John." She whispered sounding smug.

They ended up in an abandoned warehouse where a lone figure stood looking regal in a tailored suit leaning against an umbrella. As John came closer, he could sense the man's wards, powerful wards, much more powerful than any of Sherlock's. Mage. He wore a ring, which was identical to the witches on his right hand. He had been the one to gift it to her, the signatures matched perfectly.

The handle of his umbrella was craved with enchanted runes and they glowed eerily in the darkness producing not only a powerful warding affect, but also serving as a conduit for casting spells, enchantments as well as curses. The man also wore a small tiepin shaped in the eye of Horus, another powerful warding symbol. John closed his eyes and concentrated on the mage's magical signature, the equivalent to a DNA footprint looking for black magic. Sensing nothing, John breathed a sigh of relief. What was puzzling was how a self-taught human could have gained such a high level of skill without it. John decided to let that go for now. There were more pressing questions at the moment.

"Have a seat John." The man insisted. John could sense his magical aura glowing trying to get a read on him. The man was likely wondering why a human was triggering all of his wards. John was careful to keep his face neutral as the winged tattoo on his back glowed and shifted veiling his grace from the powerful mage's sight. Lestrade had tried to read John as well at the church, but had stopped when his ward pulsed in warning, leaving John's secret safe.

"You could have phoned me, on my phone." John snapped not willing to play nice. Whatever this mage wanted, John wasn't about to give it to him.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Do sit down." He insisted. Sherlock, what did this have to do with Sherlock? John wondered as he looked at the man more closely. There was something familiar about him, something that John couldn't quite place.

"I don't want to sit down." John replied sternly.

"You don't seem very afraid." The man answered.

"You don't seem very frightening." John countered.

He then laughed but it was hollow. "Yes, the bravery of the solider. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He goaded. John's eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out who this man was and what he wanted with him. He would have some of the answers sooner than he thought.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Mycroft Holmes

Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum

(Whoever desires peace, let him prepare for war)

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft questioned as he spun his umbrella. The handle glowed softly pulsing as the runes reinforced the wards. Something about this ordinary looking man was setting them off and Mycroft intended to find out what that was.

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him yesterday." John replied looking confused.

"And since yesterday, you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" Mycroft quipped sarcastically. He was tempted to cast a spell in order to force the man to give him the information, but every ward he had was warning him against it. Mycroft was curious not suicidal. What was it about this human? There was something supernatural that he must not be seeing.

"Who are you?" John asked sounding annoyed.

"An interested party." Mycroft answered evasively.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why?" John insisted. "I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having." Mycroft confided.

"And what's that?" John replied.

"An enemy." Mycroft stated plainly.

"An enemy?" John questioned.

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his archenemy. He does love to be dramatic." Mycroft elaborated.

"Well, thank god you're above all that." John snapped with a huff.

John's phone then chimed with a text from Sherlock

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft asked pulling John's attention from the phone. His brother was texting him; Mycroft didn't need to be a genius to deduce that.

"I think that's none of your business." John stated flatly looking annoyed.

"It could be." Mycroft countered. Stubborn, now wonder he and Sherlock got on.

"It really couldn't." John insisted.

"I would be willing to pay you a considerable sum of money for information, nothing indiscreet. Just tell me what he's up to. I worry about him constantly. We have a difficult relationship." Mycroft explained.

"No." John insisted.

"You're very loyal very quickly." Mycroft replied warily.

"Are we done?" John asked stiffening his posture.

"You tell me?" Mycroft shot back. Rather than answer, John turned away and Mycroft surmised aloud. "You're not haunted by the war, you miss it. Welcome back. Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson." This wasn't over, you may have won the battle, but you haven't won the war. Mycroft thought as he watched him go. He would get to the bottom of this one way or another.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Molly Hooper

momento mori

(Remember that you will die)

Molly Hooper hummed softly as she moved about the morgue at Bart's. She had just finished her final autopsy and sat down at the microscope to look at her histology slides from all of the biopsies done that day. She closed her eyes and could sense death around her. Unlike most, death did not disturb her. It was simply an unavoidable consequence of life. Everything had a beginning and an end. Unconventional attitude, but then almost everything about her was unconventional. Molly always had been considered odd and was shunned by most of her brethren. It didn't bother her. She refused to use her powers for evil and instead used them to help fight it. That was how she had met Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade. She remembered that day clearly, it would be one that she would never forget.

Sergeant Sally Donovan had come in early one morning to gather evidence for Anderson's forensic report. Sally had always been kind to her. But then, most humans were blind to the supernatural and as a result had no idea what Molly truly was. It was refreshing to be judged by the content of her character rather than supernatural abilities. "You'll never believe this one, doc. Hell of a case last night. There is just something about this case that just doesn't fit. It's right tragic, apparent drowning in the Thames, two kids, but we can't find the bodies even with the dredges. No, no bodies to be found, but we did find something else, something that we've never seen before, it stumped the whole forensics department. I was wondering if you could take a look." Molly's eyes widened as she saw what was in Sally's hand. Hair, but it wasn't human. It enchanted, from a horses mane. Kelpie. They were most often seen in Scottish Loch's but could be found near any body of water. They often lured children into the water where they then devoured them.

Molly took the hair and made a show of examining it. She knew better than to tell Sally the truth. Molly didn't fancy being admitted to the psych ward. "No, I've never seen it either, but I can keep it and run some more tests and get back to you." She offered. Sally had nodded and thanked her before leaving Molly alone with her thoughts. She should stay out of it. It wasn't her business, it didn't involve the dead and there was always the chance of being caught whether it was by the Kelpie or humans and neither was a good option. But in the end, Molly thought of those children and the children that would no doubt be killed in the future unless someone put a stop to that creature. She had to do something.

That was how she found herself moving along the bank of the Thames the next day. Molly groaned as she waded along the bank of the Thames looking for the culprit. This wasn't her area of expertise, but she had to try. She needed to confirm her suspicions before she started calling in favors. Molly had built up quite a few. Not among other necromancers, they had shunned her long ago, but she had helped many a Fay and their skills ranged more widely than hers. If she could confirm that it was the Kelpie, which took the children, then she would know whom to call upon for help. Mermaids, Nymphs, or Selkies were all powerful water Fay. Molly closed her eyes and started to conjure, she could often speak to the dead with fully raising them. They often could tell her things that others could not. "I call upon you, lend me your ears." She waited and then heard whispers followed by the sounds of children playing, the distinctive neigh and nickers of a horse, and finally screams and splashes. Kelpie. She had been right. Before Molly knew what was happening, something pulled her hair forcing her head back painfully.

"Bloody Necromancer! Were you trying to raise those babies from the dead? You make me sick. Did you kill them too, or are you just trying to make them do your bidding." A rough voice hissed in her ear. Molly looked up at her assailant and her eyes widened in shock as she took in a handsome man with dark brown eyes and silver hair in a cassock and roman collar. Priest? What was a priest doing here? How had he known what she was and that she had been conjuring the dead?

"No! You don't understand. I didn't kill them! I swear it. I was looking for the one who did." Molly insisted as the priest roughly pulled her hands behind her binding them with his silver rosary causing her to hiss in pain as the silver burned her flesh.

"You're a long way from a graveyard, don't even think of trying to conjure the dead." The priest warned. Molly bucked and fought, but the man's grip was ironclad. How had he known? Most humans were blind to the supernatural. "I wonder how you would fair in a church with all the relics and crosses." He murmured causing Molly to shudder in horrid anticipation. He then bent down and retrieved a palm full of water and then recited "Asperges me, Domine et mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor." Molly understood Latin and the meaning was not lost on her. Thou shalt sprinkle me, O Lord and I shall be cleansed; thou shall wash me and I shall become whiter than snow. He was blessing the water. Holy water would burn her.

"No! Please, it was a kelpie!" She shouted as she thrashed in his grip. He paused for a moment as his hand hovered over her forehead ready and able to pour the water over her. Molly whimpered bracing for the searing burn of the holy water.

"Lestrade, stop!" A deep baritone voice called. Molly looked up and saw most beautiful man that she had ever seen. He was gorgeous with porcelain skin, high cheekbones, full lips, with grey-green eyes and inky curls, tall and lithe. Molly stopped struggling and stared at him unabashedly. "She's telling the truth. I've found the hoof prints."

The priest grunted in acknowledgement lowering his palm and allowing the water to fall back into the Thames beside them. He then untied the rosary from around her wrists. He shoved her roughly snapping at her. "Go! Get out of here, before I change my mind." Molly turned and looked at him. He was furious and Molly knew she shouldn't press him but she had to know.

"How did you see me, when both of you are human?" She asked rubbing her sore wrists.

The beautiful man spoke much to her surprise, but rather than answer, he voiced a question. "Why were you looking for the Kelpie? Has it wronged you in some way? What interest do you have in those dead children?"

Molly bit her lip feeling indignant. They always assumed the worst. "I wanted to help. The Sergeant asked me to look at some evidence from the scene while I was working in the morgue at Bart's. They didn't know what it was, but I guessed it was a piece of the mane. I came here looking for solid proof. I wanted to stop it before it killed any more children. I'm not the monster you think I am." She shouted feeling her cheeks flush with anger.

His gaze slid over her quickly before he spoke again. "Pathologist, fitting job for a Necromancer." The man replied in a soft almost apologetic voice.

"How did you know, all of it? How?" Molly pressed. The priest moved away up the bank and out of the water to stand beside the other man with a tired sigh. The anger was gone and in its place came guilt and sadness.

"Come here," the man beckoned and Molly obeyed going to them warily. "Lestrade, check her. There's no darkness, I'm sure, but I won't go further without giving you proof." The priest cleared his throat, made the sign of the cross, lifted his rosary and then began to chant in Latin.

"Libera nos a malo. Redime me, et Miserere mei. Gloria Patri et filio et spiritui Sancto. Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et simper, et in saecula saeculorum." Molly couldn't help but translate the words silently in her head hoping that she wouldn't regret this. Deliver us from evil. Redeem me and have mercy on me. Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now and forever shall be, world without end. Nothing happened the rosary only swayed gently. There were no tell tale flashes of light or shifting of colors. "She's clean. I'm sorry for what I said." He confirmed looking ashamed.

"We're hunters. Lestrade is one of the few remaining knights of the honor guard and I'm Sherlock Holmes and I've been hunting for nearly my whole life. We are very good, but we are always on the look out for those willing to help; those that choose the light over the darkness." Sherlock replied finally answering her question.

"I'm Molly Hooper, you can count me in." Molly said after a moment of consideration. Sherlock smiled looking victorious.

"Very well, Dr. Hooper. Let's go. The game is on." Sherlock urged earning another sigh from the priest as he lit a cigarette.

"I don't even want you to contemplate about the shite in this water that we're wading through." The priest muttered under his breath as he blew out a stream of smoke.

"Giardia, cholerae, salmonella, typhoid, and amebic dysentery, just to name a few." Molly quipped in reply causing Sherlock to laugh and Lestrade to groan.

"Sorry I asked." The priest insisted as Sherlock led them in the direction of the hoof prints.

They had eventually caught the Kelpie and since then Molly had lost track of the number of cases that she had assisted with. She was pulled from her thoughts by a text alert. Be on the lookout for a succubus. More information to come-SH


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Anthea

Amour Omnia Vincit

(Love Conquers All)

"I have to know. There's something about him that I'm missing; I'm sure of it Elizabeth." Mycroft insisted. Only Mycroft Holmes knew her true name. Anthea was her middle name. It was the name she had gone by since her parents died when she was only 16. She came around the back of Mycroft's chair and kneaded his shoulder's hoping to release some of the built up tension. She didn't want him to turn to smoking again. "He's living with Sherlock, I have to know! Sherlock relishes being difficult. He loves making me worry constantly. I don't understand why my brother refuses to use magic. While his hunting skills are superior and his tools are effective, he would be so much safer using both."

"You know your brother, darling. He does as he pleases. The harder you push, the more he'll refuse." She then murmured into Mycroft's ear. "He uses magic, just not to its full extent, yet he doesn't even realize it. What he doesn't know won't hurt him, though. Stop fretting. Fay blood runs through both of your veins. It's diluted enough for both of you to pass as completely human, but gives you both a bit natural magic." Anthea reminded him. Mycroft frowned deeply at her obviously upset at her mentioning it. It was a topic, which he had forbidden any discussion of, and for once he and Sherlock had agreed. Though there were rumors amongst the Fay, they were never to be confirmed and as far as everyone was concerned Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were completely human; Sherlock a hunter and Mycroft a powerful, albeit self-taught mage.

"I've pulled his file, but there is nothing even hinting at the supernatural. Did you sense anything, my dear?" Mycroft asked looking perplexed. Anthea sighed tilting her head recalling the car ride with the doctor. The wards on her ring had pulsed softly the entire time, but she hadn't gotten a sense of anything but an ordinary human. It was quite unusual and she could understand why it had Mycroft perturbed.

"He was wearing the Eye of Ra, one of your brother's wards, which Sherlock gifted to him. He also had his service weapon loaded with silver bullets hidden under his jacket at the small of his back." Anthea murmured.

"Yes, I knew that. I should have confiscated both of them." Mycroft recalled. "But all of my wards were pulsing strongly warning me not to test him. I couldn't take the chance." Mycroft reluctantly admitted.

"Well, he certainly stood up to you and defended Sherlock. Even if we are missing something, he seems very loyal to him." Anthea pointed out.

"He could be the making of my brother or make him worse than ever." Mycroft whispered sounding haunted.

"Mycroft, you have eyes and ears everywhere. There's also the landlady, Mrs. Hudson and don't forget the priest, Lestrade. That man is much more powerful than he appears. It makes me wonder if he might have Fay blood in him as well. He's capable of much more than a simple blessing or exorcism." Anthea surmised with a small frown as she contemplated the mysterious priest.

"Of course he is, my love, but he is no Fay. He's an honor guard knight, they are descended from the knights of templar, who were some of the most powerful mystics known to man. Once they take the Oath, they become something more than human. If he has even half of knowledge which they have been passing down for centuries, then his power not only rivals Sherlock's, but mine as well." Mycroft insisted. "I'm am certain beyond a doubt that he has not used his power to its full potential. He's holding back and I'm not sure why."

"Yet, you have never expressed concern for the priest associating with your brother." Anthea retorted a bit taken by surprise at the revelation.

"Gregory Lestrade, contrary to what he may claim, has true faith. He was horribly traumatized by his mother's death, but rather than destroy him, it only made him stronger. He is the light. It is so rare to find that these days. I cannot find fault with him. He is his own worst enemy, his greatest critic is himself." Mycroft explained.

"I don't know what to tell you." Anthea said. "Besides to do as you've always done and watch over him and you're already doing that." She then turned and sat on his lap straddling him. "Let's see if we can get rid of some of this built up tension." She began kissing the crook of his neck with just a hint of teeth as her hands massaged his scalp gently and her body arched against him. Mycroft sighed deeply and Anthea could feel his body responding.

"I think I need someone to guard me from you, my dear." He joked as he moved to loosen his belt and lower his zipper easing the tightness in his pants that his growing erection was causing. Anthea laughed.

"I know you love it." She insisted.

"True." Mycroft agreed.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Sursum Corda

(Lift up your hearts)

John Watson

John returned home to Baker's Street with the groceries and more questions than answers. He sighed as he opened the door and was greeted by Sherlock who held a violin bow in one hand and rosin in the other. He moved it over the hair of his bow with practiced expertise. His violin lay cradled in his lap. John couldn't mask the surprised look on his face. He had assumed that when Sherlock mentioned that he played the instrument the claim had simply been for cover, much like the detective story. "You really play?" John asked.

"Of course, John. I also truly do consult with the Met on some of their more difficult cases despite their lack of adequate personnel. Donovan and Anderson are idiots in the greatest sense of the word and their superior DI Tobias Gregson is only marginally better. Although he is the smartest of the Scotland Yarder's, but that's really not saying much." He said before John could ask for clarification. Sherlock then changed the subject quickly. "Any requests?" John raised an eyebrow sure that the man was bluffing and deciding to call him on it. He thought for a moment before announcing his request. John was not a classically trained musician, but one couldn't go through higher levels of education and completely avoid the arts.

"Bach." John named the composer allowing Sherlock to choose the specific piece.

Sherlock sighed looking unsurprised at the request. "Always Bach, very well." He then picked up the violin placing it under his chin and adjusting his fingering before drawing the bow along the strings. John let out a breath as Sherlock played flawlessly purely from memory without the aid of sheet music. It was obviously a minor chord with a dark tone and technically difficult. John closed his eyes and simply enjoyed its beauty. Before he knew it, the piece was over and Sherlock's smooth baritone announced, "Partita No. 2 in D minor: Allemande."

"That was…amazing." John whispered still in shock at the depth of Sherlock's talent. It seemed almost contradictory that someone as clinical as Sherlock Holmes was capable of producing something so emotionally stirring. John was not about to say that aloud, however, Sherlock might never play for him again if he made those thoughts known. Sherlock's lips quirked up ever so slightly at the compliment.

"Thank you John, but really, it was nothing. Bach is so…pedestrian, ridiculously simple in its technicality. It's something that I normally would never play, but I wanted to do something nice for you, after dealing with Mycroft you deserve a bit of joy and relaxation." Sherlock replied catching John off guard.

"Who is Mycroft?" John asked. Sherlock sighed with a huff before he answered.

"My brother. He is an arrogant, interfering, fat git. He is also prone to kidnapping any close acquaintances of mine. Lestrade experienced something similar, I assure you." Sherlock explained. John's jaw dropped in shock.

"The mage? He's your brother?" John asked needing to be certain.

"Quite so, I'm afraid." Sherlock confirmed pulling his bow across the strings harshly causing the violin to screech. John winced and grit his teeth. Bloody hell. "Did he ask you to spy on my for money?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes…I refused, of course." John explained still shocked that the two men were brothers.

"Pity, we could have split the proceeds while you fed him false intel. It would have been perfect." Sherlock lamented. John frowned unsure whether or not Sherlock was serious. Just as John was about to start putting the groceries away, there came a knock at the door.

"Expecting someone?" John asked poking his head out of the kitchen.

"I don't have any appointments with clients today." Sherlock said as he moved towards the door.

"Clients?" John questioned.

"John, please, haven't you figured it out yet. Supernatural beings often find their way to me if they have a problem that needs solving. It's not as if they can go to the Met, after all. In return for my help, they grant me favors. I refuse to help those that step into the darkness, however. Those creatures are the ones that I hunt." Sherlock clarified. He then turned and opened the door revealing a small, dirty little boy and a large bloodhound. He had green eyes with a smattering of freckles over his cheeks. He pulled off his cap to reveal a mop of ginger hair that look as though it hadn't been washed in days. John looked over the boy's head hoping for a glimpse of the adult in charge of him so that he could read them the riot act but saw no one. Before John could get a word in edgewise, the boy and the dog entered the flat without hesitation.

"Billy, Toby, what brings you here?" Sherlock asked as the little boy made himself at home in Sherlock's chair and began to eat his way through all of Mrs. Hudson's scones and biscuits. The large dog leaned against Sherlock wagging its tail furiously as Sherlock scratched behind its ear obviously enjoying the attention. The little boy stopped when he caught John staring at in confusion.

"Oi, Mr. 'omles, 'oes the bloke in your flat?" The boy asked in a thick cockney accent, which was characteristic of south London.

"Billy, that is my new flatmate and assistant, Dr. John Watson." Sherlock explained. The boy's eyes narrowed at him and he cocked his head. For a moment, John was reminded of Sherlock while in the midst of deductions. Shrewd, the boy was much too shrewd.

"Bollocks, not much good 'e'll do you, Mr. 'omles wot wiv 'im being normal and all." The boy replied as he finished the last biscuit, putting emphasis on the word normal obviously using the word as a substitute for human. "Why don't cha' ask Fadda?"

"Lestrade is already working with us. He called us in on this one." Sherlock told the boy, as he set a teacup down which the boy finished in record time.

"Ta." The boy said as he continued to stare at John suspiciously. "You really a doctor?" He asked. John nodded as the large hound made its way over to him and started to lick his hand. The little boy smiled. "Toby likes you and sees things most people can't. If he trusts you, then so do I." The boy proclaimed. John was unsure of exactly what to make of the boy and his charge, but he certainly sensed that this was no ordinary child. The eyes saw too much. Then something clicked. Changling.

"Billy, would you do my a small favor?" Sherlock asked.

"Course, Mr. 'omles." He agreed readily.

"We have a case. We're looking for a succubus. Will you contact me if you come across any information on its whereabouts?" Sherlock asked. The boy nodded warily staring at John. Sherlock glanced in his direction and then quickly reassured the boy. "John knows I'm a hunter, he knows quite a bit in fact, not a goldfish. You can speak freely."

"If you say so, Mr. 'omles." The boy replied. "Ta for the tea and biscuits." He then let himself out leaving John once again stunned.

"Is that boy…" John started before Sherlock cut him off.

"Changling, yes." Sherlock confirmed with a wave of his hand.

"He's filthy, and much too thin. Where is he living?" John questioned causing Sherlock to frown before replying

"Nowhere, he's homeless." Sherlock confirmed what John had already suspected. What John didn't understand is how Sherlock could be so nonchalant about it. He was only a child.

"I understand why his parents abandoned him, but he should be in an orphanage or foster care." John insisted. Sherlock then pegged him with a look that screamed. What are you an idiot?

"Changeling, John. They are destine to wander, even if one attempted to place him in foster care. He would never stay." Sherlock answered looking annoyed. "The kindest thing I can do for him is to make sure he eats regularly and in return, he serves as eyes and ears for me. Changelings are able to sense the supernatural. He really is quite helpful." Sherlock explained. John sighed knowing that Sherlock had a point, but still not happy knowing that boy was living on the streets.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Mala in Se

(Evil in itself)

Greg Lestrade

Greg felt a chill run down his spine as he watched the news footage. There were now four dead priests in four nights each from a different church. There was no sign of traumatic injury and the bodies were being examined to discover the cause of death. Greg knew deep in his bones that this was no coincidence. Something dark was afoot. Greg debated his next move. He was not well known amongst the priesthood. His order was small and secretive. He was currently housed in Westminster's rectory, although he did not perform the traditional duties of a parish priest. He did not say mass routinely, or hear confessions. Greg couldn't remember the last time that he had performed a wedding or baptism. Few in the large congregation would recognize his face and even fewer knew his name. It was safer that way. He was busy hunting the darkness using his talents in other ways. He performed blessings, just not the traditional kind. He routinely performed exorcisms as well as last rites.

Greg sighed and debated whom to call. Sherlock came to mind immediately, but this seemed too close to home. Personal. Greg decided instead to call in a favor and dialed. "Molly, It's Greg. I'm calling about the dead priests."

"Oi, so sorry to hear it, Greg. Were they close friends of yours?" Molly asked. Greg sighed and debated how much to disclose. What the hell? Molly already knew the bulk of it. Go all in.

"Nay, I've only met one of them in passing, but I have a bad feeling about this, it all seems a bit off and what's more, it hits a bit too close to home, if you know what I mean." Greg confided. Molly hummed thoughtfully.

"I've got the bodies in the morgue. I haven't done the autopsies yet." She admitted. "Have you called Sherlock?"

"Not yet. I wanted to have a look myself first. You know how Sherlock can be." Greg said with a sigh. Molly mirrored it with one of her own.

"Feel free Greg, but I have a feeling that Sherlock will beat you to it. This will be on his radar. The mere possibility of you being killed will be enough to motivate him." Molly insisted. Greg laughed.

"I hardly think that Sherlock is at all that concerned over my well being." Greg said somewhat ruefully. Sherlock Holmes preferred to work alone whenever possible. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me. He had once shouted the words at Greg after Greg had saved him from a case that had gone bad. Greg shuddered as he remembered that night.

Poltergeist. Dark spirits. They were extremely tricky. Sherlock should have come to him, but for whatever reason, he had decided to go after it alone. Spirits were immune to spells and wards, but not impervious to certain rituals. They could be forced back into the afterlife and out of limbo, but few would go willingly. Greg respected the hunter greatly, but there were some things that Sherlock just wasn't capable of. Banishing a poltergeist was one of them. It took a very strong median. Greg just happened to be one. Greg's great grandmother had the sight. She was a Romani gypsy, who fell in love and married a Frenchman. Though his parents never said a word, Greg always suspected that his father was clairvoyant. He always chalked his eerie instincts up to luck or a simple "gut feeling" but Greg always suspected that it was more than that. He would never know for certain. His father had died when he was a teenager, just a year before his mother was killed.

Greg had always felt different even as a young child. He would talk to children that no one else could see. He hadn't known what they were at first, but he soon learned. Spirits. His parents had shrugged it off as an over active imagination and Greg quickly learned to keep his conversations private. He had no desire to be admitted to the psych ward. As he grew older, he learned control and how to shield. After he was ordained, his power and knowledge grew even stronger. His natural psychic abilities gave him a major advantage in his order and in the beginning he often called upon lost spirits for aid, those that had not fallen prey to the darkness, and in return he would free them from limbo. Greg rarely dropped his shields now. After that night when Sherlock had nearly been killed, Greg had decided that the risks were just too great. Once you opened a door to the afterlife, all kinds of things could slip through.

Sherlock had gone to investigate a haunted house. Poltergeists often attached themselves to locations. Anyone who stepped into what they deemed to be their territory was likely to become a victim. Greg could still see Sherlock fighting as the poltergeist had attempted to feed on his soul. While not able to fully possess a human like a demon, poltergeists could still cause irreparable harm, draining a soul of it's light until there was nothing left but an empty husk. This left the victim catatonic. That night had nearly killed both of them. When Greg had opened a portal to banish the poltergeist another had nearly slipped through. It had taken every bit of Greg's power to force them both back into the afterlife. Greg could still remember the fear and relief that he had felt as he realized how close they had both come to ruin. Greg could still see the look of shock and shame on Sherlock's face after it was done. Greg had briefly felt a bit of pride at having kept something secret from the great Sherlock Holmes, but that feeling had vanished when Sherlock had opened his mouth.

"What the hell was that?" Sherlock had spat the accusation vehemently.

Greg had felt hurt and angry. No gratitude. Not even a thank you, only prideful anger at having missed something about Greg's past. "That was me saving your arse! Why didn't you come to me? I could have helped. That's what friends do!" Greg had shouted.

Sherlock had sneered at him with a harsh retort. "I don't have friends! Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." Greg had seethed and replied in a heated voice.

"You machine! After everything we've been through, you really don't care?" Greg had rubbed his hands over his eyes in frustration hearing Sherlock's reply but not seeing his face.

"Caring won't help me protect people. Caring won't make me a better hunter." Greg hadn't believed his ears and just shook his head in disbelief.

Greg was pulled from his thoughts by Molly's voice. "Greg that's not true. He's closer to you than to anyone else." Molly insisted. Well that certainly wasn't saying much. Greg's thoughts briefly drifted to the mysterious Dr. Watson. There was something about him that Greg was missing. He was sure of it. He made a mental note to ask

Sherlock about it the next time they were alone.

"I'm not sure about that, Molly, but I will take you up on your offer when can we meet?" Greg asked.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Mens Rea

(Guilty Mind)

Molly Hooper

Molly moved towards the first priest's body and picked up her scalpel poised to make the distinct Y-incision to begin the autopsy. Just as she started to cut, a familiar baritone filled the air. "What have you found?" Sherlock asked as he came up behind her to peer at the body critically. Molly huffed and put down the scalpel not about to let Sherlock lurk over her shoulder during the autopsy. She turned to glare at him.

"Greg won't appreciate you stepping on his toes on this one. He says it's personal." Molly confided. Sherlock scowled at her and retorted.

"Lestrade doesn't regularly associate with other priests. He's too busy hunting. He spends more time with me. In fact, I'll bet that he hasn't even met the victims personally." Molly frowned remembering Greg's words and replied.

"He met one of them briefly, but that's beside the point. He didn't call you in on this one. He told me so. Why do you care then?" Sherlock scoffed looking annoyed at the question.

"First, this wreaks of the occult and second Lestrade is too valuable an asset to lose." He explained with a flip of his wrist.

"An asset? Is that all he is to you? Something that you can use? What did you say to him to make him think that you don't care? You always say such horrible things." Molly pressed determined to find out if Greg's claim was true. Sherlock frowned and at least had the decency to look ashamed.

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock muttered, "He's more than just an asset, and of course it matters what happens to him." Molly hummed thoughtfully before answering.

"You need to tell him that." She murmured softly causing Sherlock to frown deeply. Before Sherlock can answer, the sound of the door opening causes Molly to turn. Her eyes widen in surprise when Dr. John Watson came bursting through the door with an annoyed look on his face.

"I knew that I'd find you here. You just left without a word while that Selkie was in the midst of a panic attack looking for her stolen skin. 'Just going to make a cuppa, John, I'll only be a moment' Do you routinely walk out on your clients? How did you even get out? Climb down the fire escape?" John accused.

"Yes, it often proves to be a more stealthy mode of escape than the main entry. The case wasn't even a two. The fisherman took the skin. A child could have solved it. These priests, very atypical, now this is a nine." Sherlock insisted causing John to stifle a groan into his hand.

"Not good," Sherlock asked looking chastised.

"Bit not good. Yeah, Sherlock." John agreed with an exasperated sigh.

Molly looked at the doctor taking in his exasperated expression. She could relate. Sherlock played by his own rules and could be very difficult to work with. The question that Molly had, however, was how this human was granted access to Sherlock's supernatural cases. He held those close to the vest.

"Sherlock, how did he know about…" She trailed off hoping that Sherlock would explain further without needed to put the question bluntly in front of the doctor.

"He knows Molly. He knows everything; that I am a hunter, that Greg is an honor guard, Mycroft a mage and it is very likely that he knows that you are a necromancer, even though I had yet to tell him so." Sherlock replied. Molly blanched before stammering.

"But he's human…how?" She looked at the unassuming man still at a loss as to what made him so special that Sherlock would break a cardinal rule by allowing him access to information that humans were never privy to.

"Not a goldfish." That was all the explanation that she received before Sherlock promptly brought the subject back to the priests, which lay dead on her slab. "Well, are you going to get on with it?" Sherlock asked with a gesture at the bodies. Molly shook her head refusing to allow Sherlock to watch her work. Sherlock rolled his eyes then offered an even more outrageous suggestion. "There's a much faster way. Conjure. Let them tell you their stories." Sherlock insisted.

Before Molly could reply John exploded. "Sherlock! Are you mad? You're asking her to raise the dead?!" Sherlock pinned John with smug look and retorted.

"Molly's a skilled necromancer. She can conjure without fully raising the dead. I've witnessed her do it." Sherlock assured causing Molly to flush with embarrassment. Sherlock was right it would be faster and much more effective. She could not only find the cause of death but the facts leading up to it. Greg would never forgive her though. She never quite understood why he was so averse to her conjuring, but he loathed it.

"Lestrade's a strong median. It's why raising the dead disturbs him so. Conjuring can leave deceased soul's stuck in limbo even after the dead are put back to rest." Sherlock explained deducing Molly's thoughts. Molly shook her head in disbelief. She should have seen it. John looked just as shocked at the revelation.

"It's true. I've witnessed it, though he hasn't done it since that night…" Sherlock murmured sounding haunted. John frowned looking at Sherlock curiously.

"What night?" John probed. Sherlock sighed and shook his head again changing the subject back to the dead priests.

"I suppose you're right about the conjuring. I've caused Lestrade enough headaches over the years and this may be the straw that breaks the camel's back. Do the autopsy and get back to me." Sherlock conceded knowing that he had lost the battle. Molly nodded numbly still in shock about Greg. What else was that man hiding?


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Judica Me

(Judge me)

John Watson

"John, there's nothing until we have those results. Molly is moving at a snail's pace. I can't take it. Get me some. Get me some now!" Sherlock demanded. John frowned at him and replied crossly.

"No. Cold turkey, we agreed." He insisted with a glare in Sherlock's direction. "Besides no one will sell you any. Have you spoken to Greg about the case?" John asked changing the subject hoping to distract Sherlock from his boredom. Sherlock hissed out a frustrated curse under his breath that John didn't quite catch as he continued looking for his stash.

"Yes, and he was useless. 'Leave it, Sherlock. I can handle it, Sherlock. It's personal, Sherlock.'" Sherlock recited in a mocking voice earning a sigh from John.

John looked up from the paper that he was reading as Sherlock rifled through the flat frantically searching. "Look, Sherlock, you're doing really well, don't give up now." John urged.

"Tell me where they are John. Please, tell me!" Sherlock implored. "You should be starting on Lestrade. He smokes like a chimney."

"Sorry, one person at time," John replied looking back down at this paper. "He's next on my list."

Sherlock groaned and then exclaimed. "Mrs. Hudson! My secret supply what have you done with it? My cigarettes." Mrs. Hudson came up to the flat quickly looking annoyed but unsurprised by Sherlock's actions.

"Please, I never touch the things. How about a nice cuppa instead?" She placated.

"I need something stronger than tea," Sherlock insisted. "I need a case!"

"I'll leave you to it then, dear." Mrs. Hudson said before slipping out the door.

"You've just solved one, the Selkie with the missing skin. Ring a bell?" John reminded him pointedly.

"Oh please! That wasn't even a two. I need another! Something challenging until we get the results of the autopsies for the priests. When's the next one?" Sherlock insisted as he continued to pace restlessly.

"Nothing on the website?" John inquired. Sherlock opened the laptop and began to read in an exasperated voice.

"Dear Mr. Holmes, I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Could you please help? But wait, there's more, before she disappeared she turned luminous, like a fairy. Then, the next day she was gone." Sherlock quoted.

"Bluebell?" John asked in a confused voice.

"A pet rabbit, John," Sherlock explained. "Fairy…that could be something…let's take it."

"Are you serious?" John asked as he stared at Sherlock in disbelief.

"It's this or Cluedo." Sherlock replied causing John to shake his head in denial.

"We are never playing that again." John retorted.

"Why not?" Sherlock replied sounding distracted.

"Because the victim couldn't have done it. It's against the rules." John countered.

"Then the rules are wrong." Sherlock retorted receiving a roll of the eyes from John. Before they could continue the argument, the bell rang interrupting them.

"Client?" John asked. Sherlock tilted his head with a nod.

"Unscheduled." Sherlock said as he buzzed the man into the building. He was human and that caused John to pause and look to Sherlock for guidance. Sherlock gave John a quick nod as he let the man in.

Henry Knight sat in front of them telling his story. Sherlock couldn't stop interrupting trying to hurry him along. "What killed your father?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

He then inhaled deeply as the man lit a cigarette.

"It was huge, coal black fur, red eyes. It got him and tore him apart. I can't remember anything else. They found me the next morning just wandering on the moor. They never found his body." Henry said looking haunted.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" John prompted although John already had a good idea of what creature had caused the man's untimely death.

"Werewolf." Sherlock said causing the man to turn deathly pale whether it was due to shock or anger was hard for John to judge. John grit his teeth biting his tongue unsure why Sherlock would be so blunt with a human.

"Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?" Knight demanded.

"Surely, you're joking." Sherlock retorted sharply. "People laughed at your father too with all of his theories about Baskerville." Sherlock then spat out a flurry of deductions. "Baskerville. Interesting. We'll take the case."

"You will?" Henry Knight asked unable to mask his surprise. Sherlock nodded quickly showing the man out.

"Sherlock, I don't think that it was wise to mention the possibility of a werewolf in front of that man." John insisted wondering just what Sherlock was thinking when he agreed to this.

"Oh, please John. No one would believe him if his tongue came notarized. What's more, he has an extensive psych history. He could always plead insanity." Sherlock assured. John still didn't like it.

"Baskerville? Are you really planning on going? I've heard rumors about that place. Government facilities. Projects are all very hush-hush." John said.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock replied. "Dartmoor is our next stop."

"Just how, pray tell, are we going to get into this top secret facility?" John asked.

"I have an in. Just leave it to me." Sherlock answered looking smug. John attempted to get him to elaborate on the drive but hadn't gotten anywhere. Instead, John had attempted to turn the conversation to Greg.

"How did you meet?" John asked. Sherlock sighed and for a moment John was convinced that he wouldn't be getting answer to that question, but Sherlock spoke after a pause.

"Gregory Lestrade is a paradox. He was when I met him and still is to this day." John raised an eyebrow prompting Sherlock to continue. "So are you John." Sherlock's eyes bore into his for a moment and John squirmed. "You're hiding something. No human could possibly know the things that you do."

John swallowed before he answered in a soft voice. "I've seen heaven and hell and just about everything in between. I'm just trying to earn forgiveness." John admitted. It wasn't the whole truth, far from it, but it was the best he could offer.

"Forgiveness for what? You've led a moral life: defended the crown, healed the sick, and now you're fighting the darkness." Sherlock looked at him truly puzzled. Before John could answer, his phone rang giving him an out. He quickly answered it much to Sherlock's annoyance. Greg's voice greeted him.

"John, I know you're with Sherlock. I want you to give him a message. I need Sherlock to let me handle this. For some reason, he trusts you. Maybe he'll listen to you." Greg insisted. John frowned as he adjusted the phone bringing it closer to his ear. Why didn't Greg talk to Sherlock directly? When John posed the question the priest snapped at him angrily. "I talked to him until I was blue in the face. He refuses to drop it. Molly gave me the autopsy results. I have enough to go on. I can handle it." John grit his teeth at the revelation. Molly had yet to get back to Sherlock. She was likely withholding the information on purpose. The question was why. Much as John could understand Greg's frustration with Sherlock's methods and attitude, John couldn't deny that he had a valid point. Greg was a target. The priest was right when he claimed that it was personal. That was the precise reason that he should allow Sherlock to at least assist, if not completely take over the case. He couldn't be objective.

"I don't know why you think that I can convince him when you couldn't. I'm nobody." John claimed. Greg scoffed and retorted.

"I'll ask you again, John. Who are you? You're setting off my wards. There's something you're hiding. Whatever it is, it'll come out in the end. Secrets always do." Greg pressed. "I don't like going in blind, at least with Sherlock I know what I'm getting into." He added bitterly.

"Judge not, lest ye be judged. No one is perfect, Father." John reminded pointedly. John left Greg's question unanswered. The priest was getting too close for comfort.

"Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, he may even be a good one." Greg replied in a soft haunted voice. John suddenly felt guilty for pouring salt in old wounds. Some things were better left buried. There was obviously a painful history beneath the surface between the two men that John was unaware of.

"Look, Greg I'll ask him, yeah. I can't promise that he'll listen but I will ask." John promised.

"Ta, John." Greg said before hanging up. John sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration feeling torn. He closed his eyes for a few minutes debating what to say to Sherlock. He opened them when he felt the vehicle slow to a stop and realized that they had arrived at Baskerville.

"How did you…" John trailed off as the ID was handed back to Sherlock.

"Mycroft's ID." Sherlock said looking smug.

"Mycroft's name literally open's doors." John murmured in wonder.

"I told you he was the British Government." Sherlock replied with a grin and a wink.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Mea Culpa

(Through my Fault)

Mycroft

Mycroft looked up as an alert sounded on his phone. Someone had used his ID to access Baskerville. Mycroft knew that there could only be one person responsible, his brother. He placed a call to the facility asking them to escort Sherlock to Diogenes. The creak of the door caught his attention and Anthea slipped in. She took one look at his face and frowned knowing that something was amiss. "What happened?" She asked.

"Sherlock's poking his nose where it doesn't belong," Mycroft answered.

"What else is new?" Anthea replied sarcastically. "What has he done now?"

"He's used my ID to enter Baskerville." Mycroft clarified.

"What's he doing there? That place is more secure than the crown jewels. There is no way that anything supernatural could slip in or out without the facility allowing it; besides you, darling." Anthea said with a wink. Mycroft rolled his eyes at her teasing before answering.

"It likely involves a case." She scoffed.

"Not one of yours, I'll bet." She quipped. Mycroft shook his head with a sneer.

"Heaven forbid, he avoids our cases at all costs, unless I force his hand." Mycroft admitted. "He's being escorted here at this very moment." Anthea hummed and sat next to Mycroft obviously intending to stay. Mycroft sighed knowing that arguing about it was useless.

"You have to stop enabling him, Mycroft." Anthea insisted.

"I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one." Mycroft insisted as Anthea stared at him looking skeptical, but her eyes softened after a moment.

She was the only one who knew the whole story. Sherlock had been so traumatized that he had sublimated the memories and replaced them with something else. Redbeard. Their sister, Eurus, had been his greatest failure. She had been different from the start, smarter than both himself and Sherlock. If it had only been her intelligence that had set her apart, things may have been different, but it had been much more than that. She was a powerful pyrokinetic. She never learned to shield properly. She had nearly killed the entire family when Musgrave was burned to the ground after she had been overcome by a fit of rage. That, at least, had been an accident. She wasn't the same after that. The guilt caused her to go mad. She retreated deep into her own mind becoming even more powerful. Her thoughts grew dark and vindictive. When Sherlock made a friend, a boy named Victor Trevor, she became furious. Overcome with jealousy, she had downed the boy.

It was Mycroft who had found the body in the well. The bloody song, there was a cipher embedded into it. It was the graves that led him to the well. In hindsight, he shouldn't have confronted her. When he threatened to tell their parents and Sherlock about what she had done, she had turned on him. She attacked burning him on over 40 percent of his body nearly killing him, but not before he cast the spell that killed her. It had been self-defense, kill or be killed, but that knowledge did nothing to alleviate his guilt. Mycroft would be forever haunted by that day. The scars over his torso served as a grim reminder.

"You're too hard on yourself." Anthea murmured likely sensing the direction which his thoughts had drifted.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." Mycroft murmured softly in a voice that lacked conviction.

"You don't believe that and neither do I." Anthea insisted as she came closer pulling him into a gentle embrace. Mycroft sighed unable to deny it. They were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Mycroft called as Anthea pulled back distancing herself from him. Sherlock and John Watson were ushered in looking very annoyed. The door snapped shut and Mycroft met their faces with a glare of his own. They were not nearly as annoyed as Mycroft. "What were you doing this time Sherlock?"

"It was for a case." Sherlock retorted with a huff. "Did you have to have us escorted here?" It was then Mycroft's turn to scoff.

"If you would stop acting like a spoiled child, then perhaps I would stop treating you like one." Mycroft replied. "Dr. Watson, I'm surprised you went along with this."

Rather than answer, he raised an eyebrow with a smirk. Mycroft frowned feeling his annoyance grow at the number of unanswered questions regarding this man. He would have to dig a bit deeper, but first Sherlock needed to be dealt with. Sherlock's gaze had drifted to Anthea. She looked at him innocently as she toyed with her crystal necklace. "I find it ironic that you asked John about a happy announcement when it should be me asking about the two of you." Sherlock replied causing Mycroft to sneer. His brother was baiting him. "Don't deny it. I've known for a while and was planning on using it for leverage, if needed."

John's jaw dropped in shock as his eyes darted between Anthea and Mycroft. "You two are dating?" He asked looking for confirmation. Mycroft clamped his jaw shut feeling his blood pressure rise.

"Oh, they are doing much more than that." Sherlock trailed off in voice laced with implication.

"What do you want?" Mycroft asked knowing when to fold. Mycroft was Anthea's employer and it would look very bad for both of them if the information got out before they made alternate plans for employment if they ever decided to make an announcement. Mycroft loathed the idea of replacing Anthea she was very good at her job. It was one reason why they had been so careful, but not careful enough. Sherlock had deduced it and now was ready to out them.

"Leave me be for a while and grant me a favor." Sherlock bargained.

Mycroft sighed in relief. It was a reasonable request, especially considering that it was Sherlock. "Very well, I'll offer you an olive branch. The Succubus that you've been hunting." Sherlock grinned knowing he'd won this round.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Carpe Diem

(Seize the Day)

Sherlock

"I find it ironic that you're posing as a priest, when we have Greg at our disposal, though I suspect that you've burned a bridge with this case in that regard." John said as he took in Sherlock in a Cossack and roman collar. The look on John's face was easy to read. The sight boggled the mind, such a contradiction. Sherlock scoffed and sighed.

"He's not a good enough actor and his deductive skills are nowhere near mine. What's more, he was quite annoyed that I beat him to Bart's and those dead priests. When I suggested that he lay low and let me handle it, he was less than pleased." Sherlock replied causing John to roll his eyes.

"What a surprise," John sarcastically muttered under his breath.

There had been more to the conversation than that, but Sherlock was not about to go into all of it with John. The Succubus, the same one that had enchanted the weeping statue, was now targeting priests. Lestrade had been furious when Sherlock had approached him about it.

"This isn't just another case, Sherlock. It's personal. Stay out of it. I can handle it." The priest had claimed. Looking back, Sherlock probably should have kept his mouth shut and let Lestrade cool down. With a little time and consideration, he would have come around and Sherlock wouldn't be forced to do this the hard way. But Sherlock, as so often happened when he was chasing a lead, had continued to push. Sherlock then had suggested that Lestrade wasn't able to do it alone and that if he didn't want help he should leave it to Sherlock.

"It's in your best interest to avoid working alone, she's targeting priests." Sherlock insisted over the phone. Lestrade breathed heavily for a moment before answering him.

Sherlock's words from all those years ago were angrily spat back at him. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me!" Lestrade had then cut the call leaving Sherlock stunned and at a loss for words. He knew he needed to make it right, he couldn't afford to lose Lestrade, but it would have to wait a bit. The succubus needed to be taken down before Lestrade found her, or worse yet, she found him.

Sherlock was going to use himself as bait. While there were many Catholic churches in London, there were only two Catholic Cathedrals. St. George's and Westminster. Lestrade was housed in Westminster. So Sherlock decided to start with St. George. Ironically, it had not been any of Sherlock's contacts that had come through regarding this but his bloody interfering brother. He loathed being in Mycroft's debt, but needs must. Sherlock took a deep breath. There was no time to waste.

"Punch me in the face." Sherlock requested looking at John expectantly.

"Punch you?" John asked disbelief coloring his words.

"Yes, punch me in the face, didn't you hear me?" Sherlock snapped quickly becoming annoyed.

"I always here punch me in the face when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext." John said still unsure if Sherlock was joking.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock muttered under his breath before he punched John causing him to shout in pain. John quickly countered causing Sherlock's face to explode in pain.

"You might want to remember Sherlock. I was a solider. I killed people." John stated as he pulled him into a headlock.

"You were a doctor." Sherlock objected.

"I had bad days!" John insisted before finally letting him go. After Sherlock had ruffed up his hair, they moved closer.

Sherlock moved towards the Cathedral's entrance moving his palm over his sore cheek. He knocked as he opened the door. He was greeted by silence. He looked around the darkened church seeing only empty pews. "Hello, I've been attacked. Could someone help me?" He asked. The silence was broken be a moan causing both Sherlock and John to turn around towards the sound. There, standing right in front of them, was their mark. It seemed easy, too easy. It felt like a trap.

"Well, if it isn't the great detective Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I've been hearing about both of you." John cleared his throat loudly and looked at his feet. Sherlock, however, liked a challenge and stared her down. She was beautiful and completely nude. Dark hair perfectly coifed and make up highlighting her best features. If she expected a meal out of either of them, then she would be very disappointed.

"So you're the woman responsible for the priests, I presume?" Sherlock inquired tightening his grip on the gris-gris ward concealed in his pocket.

"Why yes, Irene Adler, the only woman that matters." She confirmed in a silken voice.

John cleared his throat again briefly meeting her gaze before moving his eyes away.

"I don't think John knows quite where to look." Sherlock said bringing her attention back to him and away from John. She came closer and examined his face.

"Someone loves you. I'd avoid those teeth and nose if I had the choice as well. You really are quite something. Beautiful. Otherworldly." She murmured. Sherlock kept his face impassive as her eyes burned brightly. She moved closer fully exposing herself leaning against him.

"Nice try, but you won't entice me. If I wanted to look at naked women, then I would borrow John's laptop." Sherlock assured her.

"You do borrow my laptop." John interjected.

"I confiscate it." Sherlock clarified.

"Tell me, I need to know. The other demon in the church, what do you know about it?" She insisted causing Sherlock to frown. He and everyone else involved assumed that the two demons had been working together. "Don't tell me the great Sherlock Holmes hasn't figured it out. Show me what you're made of. After all, brainy is the new sexy." She whispered stroking his face before leaning back and staring into his eyes. Her irises turned red as she attempted to cast him under her spell of seduction. "Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face, would you like me to try?" Irene challenged. "Tell me." Her voice turned hypnotic and Sherlock could feel the pull of a spell.

"I can't." He answered truthfully catching a glimpse of John who stood off to the side looking wary, but fully in control of himself. Sherlock kept his face neutral, but wondered how John could do it. If Sherlock was honest with himself, he was having trouble resisting her and his control was paramount. It was another piece of the puzzle that didn't fit in regards to John.

Sherlock merely stared at her unimpressed. "Look's like he was right. You are an ice man." She whispered. "I think you're damaged, delusional, and believe in a higher power, in your case, it's yourself." Irene replied.

"Are you flirting?" John asked looking confused. Sherlock raised an eyebrow knowing that she was just playing with him now. It was a game to her.

"You jealous?" She asked with a glance in John's direction.

"We're not a couple." John insisted.

"Yes, you are. You just don't know it yet." She claimed before turning her attention back to Sherlock. "If you won't give me the information I want, then I'll find something to use in order to get it. Extortion is a hobby of mine. You both haven't seen the last of me. That priest of yours will serve as excellent leverage." Sensing that she was about to make an escape, Sherlock pulled the bottle of holy water out from beneath his Cossack pulled off the top and flung it at her. She moved quickly, but not quickly enough. The right side of her calf was burned causing her to hiss in pain. "You'll pay for that!" She promised before disappearing.

"Well, that went well." John said sarcastically. "We'd better get to Westminster. She's going after Greg next. Sherlock nodded and followed as John moved out of the building and hailed a cab.

15 minutes later

Greg Lestrade

Greg was pulled from his sleep by the darkness. Greg looked around his cell cloistered within the small rectory. He didn't recognize the source at first. After all, few creatures would dare to venture into Westminster Cathedral. He looked around but saw nothing. But there was something lying in wait, he could feel it in his bones. Greg flipped on the lamp and was greeted by the sight of a nude female. She was beautiful with blue eyes, dark chestnut hair perfectly done, smoky eyes and blood red lips; beautiful and deadly. The red pendant around her neck matched her lips perfectly. The only imperfection was a burn on her right calf, which was strange. Nonetheless, Greg was certain that this was their succubus. How had she managed to get passed the runes and into his cell?

Greg reached into his nightstand drawer looking for his ward. Before he could slip the relic over his head, the sound of a sultry female voice echoed through the small cell. The demon's eye's turned red and the voice took on a hypnotic tone. Greg felt the demon's power slip over him. "Oh, no you don't. Stay where you are, say nothing and just listen. How's your faith these days, Father?" She asked. "I hear you've been looking for me. Well, it's not me that you should worry about. No, definitely not. Jim Moriarty. He told me all about you. You and Sherlock Holmes. Do you know what he calls you? The Virgin. It is true? How is that vow of celibacy treating you?" She asked as she came closer running her fingers through his hair. "You'll be such as satisfying feed. Your colleagues certainly were. Just think of it; all that pent up lust finally given an outlet. I could have you begging for mercy. Word of warning, sometimes I get a little carried away and take things too far. Just ask your brethren. Oh, wait, you can't. They're all dead. Whoops."

Not likely, he thought. He'd never begged for mercy in his life and was not about to start now. She didn't realize that he was a median and the irony of her own words. She was the one that had killed the priests. But why? Succubi and incubi rarely fed to the point of killing their victims. It was unnecessary and counter productive. Greg swallowed and tried to speak but the demon's spell had been cast leaving him helpless. It didn't make sense, there were runes carved into the walls. They should have stopped her. Something had gone wrong. Greg cursed himself for not wearing his ward to sleep. "He didn't even ask for anything, just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man." She gloated as she straddled him. Jim Moriarty. The name meant nothing to Greg. What was he missing? Sherlock, it came down to Sherlock.

Greg was now questioning his decision to call him in on this case. The succubus frowned at his lack of response to her attempts at seduction. She moved her hand over his groin, but it had no effect. She couldn't arouse him. Once she realized that she wouldn't be getting a meal out of him, she backhanded him hard across the face, splitting his cheek opened with her ring. She hissed as a bit of his blood hit her hand causing her flesh to burn. Her eyes widened and she couldn't hide the fear that flooded them. "What are you?" She murmured as she looked at the burn. Greg couldn't hide his smirk. The wail of the Gargoyles broke the silence. "That's my cue to leave. Don't try to track me. There are ways around your runes and relics, priest." Although she now looked at Greg warily the confidence in her voice was gone. "Just remember me like this, the woman who beat you." She disappeared as quickly as she had come leaving Greg feeling sickened. With her departure, the spell lifted and Greg grabbed his necklace slipping it on and vowing never to take it off again. She would pay for that. He would banish her back to Hell where she belonged, but first he needed to talk to Sherlock. He seemed to be the link in all of this. Greg then grabbed his phone and dialed Sherlock. The man had some major explaining to do.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Deo Gratias

(Thanks be to God)

Sherlock

Sherlock and John took a cab to Westminster. Sherlock's phone rang and he smirked as Lestrade's name flashed across the display. "Perfect timing." He murmured under his breath. He answered it. "Lestrade, are you safe?" Sherlock asked.

"Aye, no thanks to you." The priest snapped in an irritated voice. "I had a run in with the succubus."

"Were you able to banish her?" Sherlock asked.

"Nay, the bitch got around my runes and I wasn't wearing my ward. It doesn't make sense. I banished a soul eater a few days ago without any trouble, this should have been child's play. Something doesn't add up." Lestrade admitted in a frustrated voice causing Sherlock to frown. Even without the ward, the runes should have kept her out. Sherlock thought back to their interaction. There was something he was missing. The succubus must have had help. She had been nude but for a small necklace. The tear shaped pedant contained a small amount of blood. Vampire. Their blood was powerful and had a number of uses. Depending on the preparation it could be used to enthrall, heal or enchant. It may have been how she had gotten around the wards. While vampires could not be in the presence of crucifixes, they had no affect on demons. If they had worked together, they were able to accomplish much more.

"I may not have been able to banish her, but I can track her." Lestrade confided. "She slapped me and split my cheek opened with her ring. My blood was on her hand." Sherlock could hear the satisfaction in Lestrade's voice.

"You sound quite happy about being slapped, I always suspected that you were a masochist." Sherlock quipped allowing a teasing note to enter his voice. Lestrade chuckled.

"I'd have to be to work with you." He retorted causing Sherlock to grin.

"John and I came across her first, but I was only able to injure her before she escaped. I have a theory. She could be working with a vampire. The pendant, it had blood in it." Sherlock explained.

"Makes sense," Lestrade surmised with a sigh. "I'm going to send her back to hell, you can mark my words." Lestrade promised darkly. Sherlock heard the distinctive snap of a lighter followed by a deep inhale and exhale.

"You should quit." Sherlock urged.

"You're one to talk." Lestrade shot back and coughed proving Sherlock's point.

"I haven't smoked since John moved in." Sherlock admitted.

"That man is a miracle worker." Lestrade replied unable to mask his surprise. "Has your brother had a go at him yet? I still remember the first time I met him after working our first case. I've seen some disturbing things, but your brother is something else."

Sherlock groaned thinking of Mycroft. He was reluctant to tell Lestrade that it had been him that had led them to the succubus. "He's nothing but an arrogant and controlling pest."

"That may be true, but he's powerful in all things, personally, politically, financially, and magically and that in my book earns him respect." Lestrade replied.

"John and I are on our way. We are not going to leave your side until that succubus has been banished." Sherlock insisted earning a tired sigh from the priest.

"Fine, but I want to know, Sherlock. Who is John Watson and what is he to you? There's something I'm not seeing and contrary to what you claim, I have good instincts. He's setting off my wards and I hate going in blind." Lestrade said.

It was then Sherlock's turn to sigh. "I don't know exactly, but there's more to the story than he'll admit. As for the rest of it, it's complicated. Sentiment." Sherlock reluctantly admitted.

"It's finally happened then?" Lestrade probed sounding sad. "Someone's shown you how to care." Sherlock swallowed feeling his chest tighten with guilt. He could deduce what Lestrade must be thinking.

"Greg…what I said that night, I didn't mean it. You're my friend. You always have been. I care about you, but John, well it's more than that…" Sherlock whispered. Lestrade cleared his throat before answering.

"Ta, Sherlock. That means a lot to hear you say that and I'm happy for you. If John makes you feel that way, well, you deserve to be happy." Sherlock smiled feeling a wave of relief.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Peccavi

(I have sinned)

Irene

Irene ran unaware that she was now marked. Moriarty's words echoed in her mind. "Every fairy tale needs a good old fashion villain." She shuddered. The vampire was obsessed with the hunter, Sherlock Holmes. When he had first approached her, she hadn't been worried. She had dealt with vampires before. She should have been. Moriarty didn't play fair. Never let your guard down, even amongst your own kind. She should have suspected foul play. Moriarty had built up favors from nearly every type of dark creature in existence and now he was calling them all in. He was a spider and every creature, whether they were light or dark, which he came into contact with became trapped in his web.

Even the soul eater, Charles Magnussen, hadn't been safe. It was he that had placed the demonic runes in the church besides the statue. He had done it to pay off Moriarty. Moriarty had wanted to draw the hunter's attention. While Magnussen had upheld his end of the bargain, Moriarty had reneged on his. When Moriarty was unable to capture Holmes, he went after Magnussen in retaliation. Irene could still hear his mocking words intoned with madness. "Sorry, wrong day to die." He had laughed maniacally as he led the soul eater into a trap right into the priest's hands. Gregory Lestrade, who she now knew to be one of the last remaining honor guards, descendants of the knights of templar. The priest had banished the demon, clearly unaware that he was the creature responsible for the suicides in the church. Moriarty was clever. His actions held two purposes. One was purely revenge; the other was using the demon as bait to capture the priest. All roads led to Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty knew that the hunter would track the missing priest. But it hadn't worked out. Lestrade had proven much too powerful and Moriarty had been forced to back down.

Rather than admit defeat, the vampire had redoubled his efforts and this was how Irene had found herself running from the hunter and the priest. Irene's thoughts moved briefly to the unassuming man named John Watson. There was something off about him. He hadn't been affected by her spell of seduction in the slightest. She paused a moment to regroup. She should never have agreed to help the vampire, but the notion of feeding off of Sherlock Holmes had been too much to resist. The decision had proven to be her down fall. Now she was running for her life and hadn't feed in days. She was pulled from her thoughts by the hunter's smooth baritone voice. "You should never let your heart rule your head." She looked up in shock to see Holmes, Watson, and Lestrade standing in front of her. How had they found her so quickly? She was trapped. She needed to bide time.

"Somebody loves you." She insisted repeating her claim from earlier but this time she wasn't joking. Her eyes moved purposely from John to Sherlock causing John to shake his head. There wasn't much time. She had to stall.

"He's not like that. He doesn't feel things like that. I don't think." Sherlock winced, it was quick; and if she hadn't been looking for it, she would have missed it completely. The priest caught it though, and the look that he shot her could kill. Clever man. She thought, much more clever than Sherlock gave him credit for. Before the priest could stop him, Sherlock replied.

"Sentiment. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." The priest then grit his teeth and snapped.

"Enough, both of you. This has gone on long enough." Not nearly, Irene thought as she scanned the room. Watson. He was the easier target. The bloody priest was good, too good. He was about to take her down. She stared Watson down putting all of her power into a seduction spell, but the man merely looked at her remaining completely unaffected.

"I was just playing the game." She confessed moving her attention back to the priest knowing that she was beaten.

"I know," Lestrade taunted, "and this is just losing." He took a deep breath and pulled a silver rosary from his cassock. He made the sign of the cross and it pulsed with holy magic as he began to chant. "Libera nos a malo, quaesumus, domine, ab omnibus malis, praeteritis, praesentibus et futuris. Da propitius pacem in diebus nostris: ut ope misericordiae tuae adjuti, et a peccato simus semper liberi, et ab omni perturbatione securi." Deliver us from evil, we beseech thee, O Lord, from all evils, past, present, and to come. Mercifully, grant peace in our days, that through the bounteous help of thy mercy we may always be free of sin and safe from all disquiet.

Irene smelt the brimstone as the portal opened and as she was pulled through her gaze drifted back to John Watson. He stood behind the hunter and the priest now hidden in the shadows. With the priest's holy magic peaking, there was now a glowing aura surrounding Watson in the shape of wings. Before she could contemplate the meaning of them, the portal closed disappearing and with it the so did the strange aura surrounding John Watson.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Munda Cor Meum

(Cleanse My Heart)

John Watson

John watched impressed with Greg's skill as he banished the succubus with ease. It was the first time that John had seen the priest use his holy magic. It called to John's grace and he shifted back into the shadows as the tattoo on his back pulsed reacting to Greg's light. Powerful, the priest was much more powerful than John had thought possible. John breathed a sigh of relief when it was over and the holy magic faded allowing his tattoo to settle. "Impressive." John murmured to Greg who looked very satisfied with himself at the moment.

"Don't be too impressed John. The vampire that she was working with is still at large." Sherlock pointed out although his words lacked their usual condescending tone.

Greg lit a cigarette and took a deep inhale and releasing a plume of smoke before adding in a contemplative tone. "Now that I think about it that soul eater that I banished kept talking about a vampire. He wouldn't say his name. Just kept referring to him as 'the spider' and the succubus, she referred to someone named Jim Moriarty. It makes me wonder if they are one and the same." Sherlock's eyes closed for a moment as he digested the information.

"Most definitely." Sherlock insisted. "But what was the motive for the vampire? There are easier ways to feed and enslave thralls. You don't need a succubus and soul eater for that. We're missing something. We should have taken the pendant that she was wearing. It might have led us to the vampire."

"Couldn't risk it." Greg replied. John had to agree with him. Physically touching a sex demon was ill advised even to those with powerful wards.

"You could have. She already touched you and then slapped you and you resisted." Sherlock answered catching John by surprise with the information. John looked at the priest and raised an eyebrow. Anyone able to resist that was powerful indeed. Greg sighed and then replied.

"Maybe you're right. I might have gotten lucky twice, but I wasn't thinking of the vampire, only of sending her back to Hell." He admitted. Sherlock, much to John's surprise, remained silent for once not voicing further complaints. "What about Mycroft? Does he owe you any favors? He has access to paranormal files that neither of us do." Greg asked with a look in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock grit his teeth and shook his head.

"I called in a major favor to find the succubus. I would have to earn another. I dread to think what that would involve." Sherlock said with a shudder.

"Wouldn't kill you to take one for the team for once. I know Mycroft can be a condescending ass, but he is not as you seem to believe the embodiment of evil." Greg insisted with a wink allowing a teasing note to enter his tone. Sherlock only scoffed in reply. John watched the two of them banter feeling relieved that whatever wedge had been driven between them now appeared to be forgotten. The sound of a siren broke the banter and the panda car came to a halt and a woman stepped out.

"You have any open cases with the Met right now?" Greg asked. Sherlock shook his head. Before he could elaborate further, the woman approached Sherlock looking him straight in the eye. She had dark brown eyes with mocha colored skin and dark curly hair. She sneered at Sherlock not bothering to hide the contempt in her eyes.

"Been looking for you, Freak." She stated coldly causing John to bristle and stiffen.

"I'm busy, Donovan. You'll have to make due without me and earn your pay for once." Sherlock snapped. The woman, Donovan, huffed before looking at Greg suspiciously.

"What the bloody hell are you doing with a priest? You wouldn't know faith if it bit you in the ass." She claimed.

"Oi, watch it!" Greg retorted. Sherlock couldn't quite hide the smirk that appeared but it quickly fell away when the woman replied.

"I don't know why you're here, but I suggest you go back to where you came from, Father. There's no savin' him." She continued undeterred by the scathing look Greg pegged her with. "Strange place for a confession, eh?"

"He's got nothing to confess to me." Greg said matching her cold tone.

"Oh, really? We'll see about that. You're wanted for questioning in the death of a boy named Billy Wiggins. I'm bringing you in, Freak." Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened in anger.

"What killed him?" Sherlock demanded. Greg muttered a prayer under his breath crossing himself.

"Surprised you can't deduce it. Let's go." Sherlock looked like he was going to protest at first, but then seemed to change his mind following the woman into the car leaving Greg and John behind.

"Billy Wiggins. The changeling?" John asked Greg looking for confirmation of his suspicion.

"Aye, you met him?" Greg replied looking melancholy.

"Only once." John confirmed with a sigh. "What should we do about Sherlock?"

"You head to New Scotland Yard. I'll call Mycroft. I'll stick out at the Met like a sore thumb. You can slip in unnoticed." Greg insisted causing John to raise an eyebrow. "Don't text him. If they are questioning him, it's likely that they consider in a suspect. The phone will be used as evidence."

"Why would he be considered a suspect?" John asked. Greg sighed taking one last drag off his cigarette before snubbing it out.

"That there was Sally Donovan. It's the first time that I have seen her in person, but she fits Sherlock's description perfectly. She has an ax to grind against him. First, I think it's because he winds up involved with so many of their cold cases, the ones that have supernatural forces at work, that they would never have a shot in hell at solving because they don't know what they are looking for. But she also just doesn't like him." Greg explained. "Billy was likely asking around for Sherlock. He may have mentioned his name and inadvertently gotten Sherlock on Donovan's radar."

"What killed him?" John repeated Sherlock's question from earlier. Greg shrugged.

"Don't know, but I can say for certain that it was something supernatural. The boy was smart and knew how to cover his tracks. Sherlock will find out. He won't admit it, but he liked the kid. His murder won't go unsolved." Greg assured. "Go track down Sherlock while I make a few calls." John nodded stepping up to the curb and hailing a cab.

"New Scotland Yard." He said and the cabbie nodded in acknowledgement

"He's gone." Donovan said as John made his way into the building looking for Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" John asked with a quick glance at his watch. Traffic had been bad. It had taken 45 minutes for him to get here. Even so, it seemed a short amount of time for police questioning to have taken place.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that." She admitted giving him an appraising look.

"Is he coming back?" John asked hoping that Sherlock mentioned something as Greg had warned him not to contact him via his mobile.

"Doesn't look like it." Sally answered still staring at him contemplatively before continuing. "You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm nobody, I just met him." John answered. He was getting sick of everyone's constant questions, but this woman was by far the most irritating of all of them. Her nasty attitude and prejudice against Sherlock grated on his last nerve.

"A bit of advice then, stay away from that guy." She insisted seriously.

"Why? John challenged.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off. And you know what? One day showing off won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there." She replied confidently.

"Why would he do that?" John probed refusing to let it go.

"Because he's a psychopath and psychopaths get bored. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." She warned before turning away and slipping into the crowd leaving John angry and frustrated. He turned around and left the way he came intending to go back to Baker's Street.

As John moved through the crowded sidewalk intending to walk the rest of the way back to Baker's Street, he paused for a moment stepping into the alley to check his phone in case Greg had any new information. As he opened his messages, he heard something, and as he turned around to look for the source of the sound, John felt the sting of the needle as the syringe was emptied. His vision swam and the last thing he saw was a pale face with dark eyes and dark hair and as the man spoke John caught a glimpse of fangs peeking out from his lips. Vampire. He was likely the same one that was connected to Irene Adler. "I don't know what Sherlock Holmes sees in you. You're ordinary." John succumbed to the drug before he could reply slipping into unconsciousness.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Hoc est Bellum

(This is War)

Sherlock

After enduring half an hour of bumbling questions from Donovan, Sherlock had been released. "Not enough evidence to hold you yet, Freak." She had claimed not bothering to hide her disgust with him. Sherlock hadn't been concerned. He had nearly refused to go in for questioning solely based on the principle. After all, he had nothing to do with the boy's death, but he had wanted to get more information on the murder and this was a quick and easy way to get it.

Now that he had gotten what he needed, he sneered at her and deduced. "Wearing Anderson's deodorant? Wife must be out of town." She couldn't hide the flush that stained her cheeks. Sherlock could see the emotions rapidly moving across he face, surprise, followed by embarrassment, then and finally settling on anger.

She frowned and replied hotly. "Whatever you're implying…" Before she could spout off some pathetic excuse, Sherlock cut her off and continued.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure you came round for a little chat and just happened to stay over and I think it's safe to assume you scrubbed his floors going by the state of your knees." Sherlock had then turned and walked out of the Met without another word leaving Sally Donovan both speechless and humiliated.

Sherlock had enough to go on now, but there was something that he had to do first. The cause of Billy's death was exsanguination. The only wounds were two puncture marks over the carotid artery. While the Met was at a loss, Sherlock knew exactly what had killed the boy. A vampire, very likely the same vampire involved with the succubus that Lestrade had just banished, Irene Adler. It was all connected somehow, but what was the link? Sherlock was determined to find out. He felt a flare of guilt over the boys' death. If Sherlock had not asked him for information regarding Adler, then he would likely still be alive. The vampire would pay for that, Sherlock would make sure of it. Sherlock hailed a cab and went in search of the hound named Toby. The dog never left the boy's side and Sherlock was not about to let the animal fall by the wayside.

The bell chimed as he entered Angelo's restaurant. The smell of fresh pasta and garlic filled the air. The checkered tablecloths and squeaky wooden floors were familiar, almost comfortingly so. I should bring John here, Sherlock thought as he caught sight of the establishment's owner. Angelo grinned widely and quickly made his way over. "Sherlock, so good to see you, my friend. Have a seat, anything on the menu, on the house!" He proclaimed slapping Sherlock on the back. Sherlock put on his best smile. He really did like Angelo, but the man could be unbearably long winded and Sherlock hadn't come to chat. Toby loved Angelo's garlic rolls and was capable of sniffing them out from miles away. They would be the perfect tools to lure the hound back to Baker's Street.

Sherlock had met Angelo, as he did with so many people, on a case. He had cleared Angelo's name. The man had been wrongly charged with murder by the Met when his wife went missing. When her body showed up in the Thames, Sherlock had known that an Undine or Water Elemental had been responsible for her death. It was one of the few supernatural cases of his, which was still unsolved, and it vexed Sherlock to this day. Though he was unable to find the elemental, Sherlock was sure to give Angelo an alibi. He could not have killed his wife because he had been house breaking at the time. While Angelo had been convicted of house breaking, the man had nevertheless been grateful to Sherlock for clearing his name in regards to the murder.

"I'm on a case, no time to sit and eat. I would, however, appreciate some of your garlic rolls." Sherlock requested. Angelo smiled with a quick nod in headed into the kitchen. Moments later, he returned with a basket full of piping hot rolls.

"Mangia! You're too thin a strong gust would blow you over." Angelo claimed pulling one of the rolls from the basket and placing it in Sherlock's hand with an expectant look. Sherlock took a bite to appease him and slipped the remaining uneaten roll into the basket with the others.

"Can't eat too much whilst on a case, it slows the transport." Sherlock insisted. "I have to run the game is on." Sherlock thanked Angelo and quickly departed making his way on foot to Baker's Street leaving a trail of garlic rolls in his wake. As Sherlock predicted the bloodhound appeared lured by the scent as Sherlock was nearing Baker's Street.

"Aye, Toby. Come here." Sherlock called. The dog approached without his usual enthusiasm. Sherlock sighed confident that the animal was missing his young master. "We'll find whoever killed him." Sherlock murmured as he led the dog up the stairs and into the flat. Sherlock sighed again belatedly remembering that he needed to dog proof the flat and keep all of his chemicals and weapons out of Toby's reach. As Sherlock mentally rearranged the flat, a text alert pulled him from his thoughts. Rather than John or even Lestrade as Sherlock expected, it was from an unknown contact causing Sherlock to frown as he read the message.

Meet me at the pool, where little Carl died. John Watson is definitely in danger. Come and play. The text came through an unknown number onto Sherlock's mobile. Sherlock swallowed as he recalled the Carl Powers. He had been killed when Sherlock was just a boy himself. He had been so sure it had been murder, but lacked the proof. The police had ruled it a drowning, but even at Sherlock's tender age, he had known better. The boy had been captain of the swim team. There was no way that he had drowned. There were other things amiss. His shoes had been missing and had never been found. It seemed as though a 20 odd year old mystery was coming back to haunt him.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Flectere si nequeo superos, Acheronta movebo

(If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell)

James Moriarty

"This is a turn up, isn't Sherlock?" John's disembodied voice echoed through the empty room. The shocked look on the detective's face was priceless

"John, what the Hell?" Sherlock demanded not able to fully mask the catch of emotion in his voice. Moriarty smiled pleased that Watson was proving to be so useful.

"Bet you never saw this coming?" John continued keeping his face blank. Moriarty had to admire his control. Too bad it wouldn't save him. The vampire was hungry, starving, in fact.

He stepped out of the shadows revealing himself, his thick Irish brogue breaking the silence. "Irene said you might call. Is that a British army Browning L91A in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" Moriarty goaded. The great detective approached him as he scanned the scene taking in John Watson who had a red dot of a sniper scope aimed at him.

"Both." Sherlock said pulling out the gun and pointing it at the Moriarty.

"Jim Moriarty, hi. Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock. Just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on in the big bad world. No one ever gets to me and no one ever will." Moriarty boasted.

"I did." Sherlock assured.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way. It's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now." Moriarty said in a singsong voice. His face then morphed from mocking to solemn. "Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing. Too bad the Met wouldn't listen to a minor, you were right you know, he didn't drown. I kept a token. His shoes." He admitted gleefully as he took in the shocked look on the detective's face.

"I will stop you." Sherlock promised. Moriarty smiled knowing just how wrong he was and reveling in it. He had been toying with Sherlock Holmes. Irene Adler had been so useful, until the priest had banished her. Gregory Lestrade. He had been Moriarty's first choice initially, but he had proven to be an exceedingly difficult target. After a number of failed attempts, he had moved on to something that proved to be even better. John Watson, oh what a pleasant surprise he had been. Moriarty had assumed that he was human at first, but he had been wrong. Fallen Angel, better still, one which had not yet been consumed by darkness, still attempting to earn back all of his grace. The best part was Sherlock had no idea.

"No you won't, my thrall, Moran, is a sharpshooter and he has his sights set on you. A silver bullet will only slow me down, not kill me. You, on the other hand, well, humans are so fragile. I could kill you, but I want you to suffer. I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you." Moriarty threatened.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock replied trying desperately to keep the panic out of his voice, but not quite succeeding. Moriarty could sense it just below the surface and felt a thrill at the knowledge that he was the one who caused it.

"But we both know that's not quite true. Sherlock, you see but you do not observe. How did you miss it? Well, I suppose it's understandable. I didn't see it at first either. All I thought when I first saw John Watson was he's ordinary on the side of the angels, but not for long." He taunted pulling John in front of him like a human shield. "Fallen. He's fallen and in this case it's not the fall that kills you. Oh, no. It's the landing. And you, John Watson, have landed in quite a bit of trouble. I could enthrall you, but there could be a chance that either that priest of yours or your mage brother may be able to reverse it. Oh no, there will be no coming back from what I intend to do to you." Moriarty promised. He then hissed at Sherlock. "I'll make you kill that which you treasure most." Moriarty then struck biting down on Watson's jugular vein and sucking with all his might. Watson flailed briefly in an attempt to escape, but he quickly slumped down as he fell unconscious from the rapid blood loss.

"Stop!" Sherlock screamed shooting him. The vampire winched in pain but continued defiantly enjoying Sherlock's feeble attempts at rescue. The hunter then pulled out a satchel of salt pouring it onto the ground in a pattern, which the vampire did not immediately recognize. Moriarty hissed as the lead ring on his finger turned to silver burning him. He pulled it off without breaking his hold on Watson's jugular. Enough playing. Now, he thought sending the command to Moran mentally. Another shot rang out grazing Sherlock's temple, only a flesh wound, but enough to stop him from taking another shot or attempting further alchemy. The pain from the silver bullet flared for a moment, slowing him down, but he kept drinking nearly sucking Watson dry only when the flow slowed to a trickle and the heart beat erratically did he let go. Watson's blood was far more potent than that of a human. Moriarty felt a rush of power feeling triumphant. He smiled and then bit into his own wrist opening the vein and forcing it into the fallen angel's mouth massaging his throat and forcing him to swallow. Once the color began to return to Watson's face, Moriarty removed his wrist closing the wound with a swipe of his tongue.

By sunset tomorrow, John Watson would awaken a newly turned vampire. "Remember Sherlock, in a world of locked rooms the man with the key is king and honey you should see me in a crown." Moriarty then transformed into a bat escaping quickly leaving Sherlock Holmes dazed and horrified.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Aut Viam Inveniam aut Faciam

(Either find a way or make one)

Sherlock

Sherlock pulled the vial from his pocket and drank quickly. The bitter taste exploded in his mouth, but the healing effect was instantaneous. The panacea was a product of years of trial and error. Though few knew it, Sherlock was quite an accomplished alchemist. The flesh wound began to mend and the dizziness and disorientation lessened. John, oh God. Sherlock ran to his still form. His body lay supine on the cool tile beside the pool. His lips were stained with blood and puncture wounds from the vampire's fangs had already healed leaving two small scars. Sherlock felt for a pulse and the slow irregular heartbeat incompatible with life was present. Turning, John was turning and by sunset tomorrow he would be a fully turned vampire.

Sherlock's stomach tightened painfully. He knew what he should do. Stake him. End it now, before John rose. Newly turned vampires were feral, ruled only by their insatiable hunger. Many were willing to attack anything, even other vampires, in their search for blood. It was why they were isolated and caged in the beginning, often by their own sires and fed until they were able to learn more control. It took time and coaching for them to learn to control their instincts. The thought of seeing John like that made Sherlock sick. He knew what he needed to do, but as he looked into John's slumbering face, he knew couldn't do it. He picked up his phone and dialed. "Brother mine…I need your help." Sherlock begged unable to stop his voice from breaking as the tears ran down his face.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done?" Mycroft murmured. "Where are you? What's happened?"

"John, he's been bitten. He'll rise a fully turned vampire by sunset tomorrow. I can't do it Mycroft…I know I should kill him, but I can't." Sherlock choked out. "We're at the pool where Carl Power's died. It was Moriarty." Sherlock didn't bother to explain that it had been Moriarty who had been responsible for Carl's death as well as John.

"Stay where you are. I'll come collect you, then we can go from there." Mycroft ordered cutting the call. Sherlock took a deep shuddering breath. He closed his eyes and slipped deep into his mind palace shifting quickly through every piece of myth and lore on vampires that he had gathered in his many years of hunting. Nothing, there was nothing to stop this. Over, it was over. Then something Moriarty had said made him pause. Fallen. Sherlock had assumed that he was speaking metaphorically, simply a bit of taunting soliloquy, but what if the vampire had been serious? Sherlock needed to know. He stripped John of his jacket and that hateful explosive filled vest, then of his shirt exposing his bare chest. His eyes were immediately drawn to the scar on his left shoulder shaped in a distinctive starburst pattern. He turned John over carefully in order to expose his back and he could not hold back the startled gasp that escaped.

Wings. An enchanted tattoo in a perfect rendition of angelic wings spanned the entire length of John's back. They were so lifelike that Sherlock touched them just to be sure, feeling only the smooth warmth of John's skin followed by a feeling of safety and contentment. In response to Sherlock's touch, the white feathers pulsed weakly causing them to shimmer and flutter ever so slightly. Sherlock stared, transfixed. Angels. Sherlock knew they existed, but not like this; never like this. There were tales of fallen angels, but in all of his years, Sherlock had never once come upon one and had assumed that they were nothing more than biblical myths, which had long ago fallen into legend. Sherlock felt, rather than saw, the veil slip over them hiding them from sight. Whispers echoed in Sherlock's ears, they spoke a language that he couldn't understand. There was something familiar about it, though. Then it came to him, it was the same language that John had spoken in the church. Angelic, the language of angels was unheard by man, Sherlock had no hope of understanding it. "Lestrade…" Sherlock murmured. The priest would no doubt be a wealth of information, perhaps more useful than Mycroft in this case. Sherlock paused for a moment and then made a second call.

"Lestrade," the priest answered in a rough voice. Sherlock took a deep breath and began his tale. Once the whole story fell from his lips, he was greeted by silence, which was never a good sign.

"Lestrade?" He called as he looked at John feeling his chest tighten painfully. Lestrade sighed and finally answered after a weary sigh.

"Stake him." He insisted causing Sherlock's blood to run cold. No, there had to be something. Anything. He would try anything.

"No…Please…Greg. I can't. Isn't there something, anything, which you could try? If it doesn't work, then Mycroft will do it. You have my word." Sherlock pleaded.

"He's Fallen. There was a reason he was cast out. There will be no grace left by the end of it. Do it before he turns fully. It's kinder that way." Greg advised in a pained voice. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Greg, I'm begging you. Please try. After everything we've been through together, please, do this for me." Sherlock choked out in a hoarse voice. Greg growled and cursed roughly under his breath before answering.

"Bring him to Westminster Cathedral. Come with Mycroft and Anthea, bring stakes, silver, and anything else magical which has not been tainted by darkness. I'll need all the help that I can get. There is a ritual, which may strengthen his grace enough to resist the darkness. I have never seen it attempted. It may not work. No promises, Sherlock." Lestrade insisted as he cut the call. Sherlock let out a relieved sigh. Now all he had to do was convince Mycroft, which ironically, may prove harder than convincing Lestrade.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Mala Tempora Currunt

(Bad times are upon us)

Mycroft

Mycroft moved down the corridor quickly. As he opened the door to the indoor pool, nothing greeted them but the smell of chlorine and the gentle hum of the pumps. Their footsteps echoed across the titled floor. Mycroft pulled out his scrying stone from his vest pocket. "James Moriarty." He commanded. Anthea peered over his shoulder as the stone glowed eerily and the tragic scene played out in front of their eyes.

He watched, sickened, as Moriarty taunted Sherlock using John as a pawn before biting him. Rather than draining him dry and leaving him to die, Moriarty had done something much more vicious. He had fed John his blood ensuring that he would rise a fully turned vampire. Sherlock had shot him but it had only slowed the vampire down. Sherlock was lucky to have lived, if the sniper's bullet had moved by an inch, then Sherlock would be dead instead of receiving a flesh wound. Desperate, Sherlock had even resorted to alchemy, but he was unable to stop the vampire. Moriarty had left John's body after transforming and escaping leaving Sherlock helpless and horrified. He would pay for that and Mycroft vowed in that moment that he would track that creature down and kill it slowly.

"Where are they?" Anthea asked looking around. Her hand tightened around the athame blade causing it to pulse with magic. Mycroft's hand tightened around the handle of his umbrella as the runes pulsed softly.

"Something's veiling them." Mycroft said in a worried voice. If he and Anthea couldn't see through it, then whatever it was very powerful. "Sherlock, show yourself!" Mycroft ordered.

"Here!" Sherlock's voice called out. Mycroft followed the sound of his brother's voice moving in its direction. Sherlock then appeared in front of them as the veiling broke revealing Sherlock standing next to John Watson's body. Mycroft came closer feeling his heartbreak a bit for his brother.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft said softly with a look into Sherlock's tortured gaze. "We'll do it quickly, he won't suffer anymore." Mycroft promised as Anthea pulled the stake and hammer from the rucksack on her back.

"Wait! There may be a chance to save him." Sherlock pleaded with a gesture towards John's back. Mycroft looked down and peered at it with a frown. There was a tattoo. Wings, they were beautiful and so realistic that they seemed to move, shifting and glowing ever so slightly. Mycroft squinted and realized that it wasn't shading and spatial relativity that was causing an optical illusion, but actual movement. What in heaven's name? There, before them lay a fallen angel, a creature so rare that many believed them to be a product of lore. Mycroft was struck speechless. The pieces fell into place. That was why John Watson had set off his wards. The fleeting sense of satisfaction related to having his questions about John answered faded quickly as Mycroft wracked his brain trying to gather every bit of information that he had read on the subject of fallen angels. Too Late, John Watson's light was fading and there was nothing they could do to stop this.

"It's too late Sherlock. He's turning. We simply cannot allow this to happen. Can you imagine what he will rise as? Something more than a mere vampire, something dark and very powerful, of that, I am certain. He's already gone. But that's the deceased for you, late in every sense of the word." Mycroft quipped.

"He's not dead, Mycroft!" Sherlock snarled. Mycroft could see the panic overwhelm him. He was desperate, willing to do anything.

"He's as good as it." Anthea interjected as she eyed John's pallid, motionless body staring seemingly mesmerized by the white shimmering tattoo. "Would you like to do it or shall I?" She asked with a look in Mycroft's direction.

"The roads we walk have demons beneath and yours have been waiting for a very long time. The east wind is coming Sherlock; it's coming to get you. Let us put an end to this now before it's too late." Mycroft warned ominously.

The verse echoed through Sherlock's mind. "Very well, said the merchant, I give in. I am yours. But tell me, why did you look surprised this morning when you saw me in Baghdad? Because, said death, I had an appointment with you tonight, in Samara." Sherlock murmured.

"Appointment in Samara, the merchant who can't outrun death. You always hated that story as a child." Mycroft replied sounding perplexed.

"Death waits for us all in Samara, but can Samara be avoided?" Sherlock probed. He took a deep breath and then continued. "Lestrade mentioned a ritual. He told me to bring you, Anthea, and John to Westminster, along with enchanted articles." Sherlock insisted causing both Mycroft and Anthea to blanch in shock.

"I don't know what you said to that priest to get him to agree, but you had better rethink this. It sounds like a disaster." Anthea said looking Sherlock in the eye.

"Sherlock, did Gregory offer any guarantee of success?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock shook his head unable to meet Mycroft's gaze. Mycroft sighed wearily as he took in his brother's haunted face. He would go along with this, but only on one condition. "I was there for you before and I'll be there for you again, but I need your word that you'll let me end this if things go south." Sherlock nodded numbly. "Let's go." Mycroft said with a glance at Anthea who looked fit to be tied but held her tongue. Mycroft mouthed thank you and she nodded looking as hopeless as Mycroft felt.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Ora pro Nobis

(Pray for Us)

Greg Lestrade

Greg stood at the alter and lit the candles surrounding it as he waited for Sherlock, Mycroft, Anthea and John to arrive. How had he let himself be talked into this? This was unheard of: a fallen angel that had been bitten by a vampire. What dark creature would it become? Greg shuddered at the possibilities; it would become something much more powerful than either a Fallen or a Vampire, of that much Greg was certain. This was a lost cause. Greg couldn't hold back a ghost of a smile as he touched relic around his neck, the small pendant with chip of bone belonging to St. Jude the Apostle, patron saint of lost causes. "I could use your help tonight." Greg whispered. He was going at this blind. While he knew the ritual, he had never performed it before. It would require that he use a piece of himself, his own light. It was dangerous, not only for John, but for Greg as well. That was why he insisted that Mycroft and Anthea be present. If the ritual failed, then John must be dispatched and buried on hallowed ground to prevent any of the darkness from trying to enter Greg. Greg only hoped that Sherlock realized what a risk he was taking.

The door creaked and Greg looked up spotting Mycroft and Sherlock carrying a limp John with Anthea close behind armed with a wooden stake and hammer. Greg gestured for them to bring John to him. "Put him on his stomach, I need to examine his back." Greg insisted. They did as he asked carefully lowering John. Greg knelt down and peered at John's naked back still shocked despite Sherlock's warning. Part of him hadn't wanted to believe it, but the proof was there right in front of his eyes in the form of the enchanted tattoo in a perfect rendition of angelic wings.

"Angelic grace, it's still present." Lestrade murmured as he caressed the tattoo causing the feathers to pulse weakly, then to flutter and shift much like a hologram. The missing pieces fell into place; that was why John had set off his wards. While not inherently dark by nature, fallen angels were by their very existence on the edges of darkness, until they earned back all of their grace and moved back into the light and to their redemption into heaven. John's grace was weak, but there was still light and goodness in him, but it was fading as he turned. John's grace needed strengthening, but he was turning. As that happened, John was being pushed further into the darkness away from the light.

The ritual that Greg would try was very much an unknown. There was a good possibility that rather than strengthen John's grace as intended, it could either kill John, or worse yet, fail completely leaving Greg's soul opened to the darkness. Greg frowned as he considered the options. There was still a chance, albeit a slim one. Greg had promised Sherlock. John deserved a chance. He turned to Mycroft, Sherlock, and Anthea. If they were going to do this, they needed to be on the same page. "I need your word. If his wings turn black or disappear completely, it means that all of his grace, which is the angelic equivalent of a soul, has fled meaning that the ritual has failed. If that happens, then John must be killed and his body buried on hallowed ground. I am giving a up part of myself, my light, my soul, in order to do this and it will leave me vulnerable to the darkness, if these steps are not followed." Greg warned gravely.

Sherlock's eyes widened at the admission. Mycroft cleared his throat loudly with a pointed look in his brother's direction. "Sherlock, perhaps it is unfair to ask this of him…" He said before trailing off. Anthea picked up were he left off stating much more bluntly.

"This is a lost cause and we all know it, Sherlock. As badly as we all feel about what happened to John, it's reckless to ask Lestrade to do this. It's putting him in grave danger. End it now, before it goes any further. If you don't want to do it, I will." She said as she held up the stake and hammer. The athame blade tucked into her belt shimmered in the candlelight. Greg was glad that she had the foresight to bring it; it was a powerful weapon, which only a natural witch could harness. The blades were often used in pagan rituals and Greg could see that this one was strongly enchanted.

"You'll have to go through me first." Sherlock threatened standing over John's prone form. His eyes shifted eerily in the candle light, for a moment Greg caught a glimpse of natural magic in them. It was proof of what Greg and many others had long suspected, Fay blood ran through the Holmes line. This was the first time Greg had seen any hint of natural magic in Sherlock, and Greg could not help but admire his control. Anthea frowned deeply seemingly caught off guard by Sherlock's display. The crystals on her earrings and necklace glowed softly in the candle lit cathedral, magical talismans which amplified her own natural magic.

"Selfish. Fine, but if something happens to him, his blood will be on your hands, not ours." Anthea replied with a look in Greg's direction. "Anything that you'd like to add?" She asked moving her gaze to Mycroft. Mycroft's eyes narrowed glowing slightly in a similar display challenging his brother.

"Are you sure, you're willing to risk it? If this all goes south, we may end up burying more than just John tonight. Will you be able to live with that? Of two evils, pick the lesser." Mycroft stated. Sherlock bit his lip looking torn.

"You have my word, Greg. If it fails, we'll do as you ask, please try." Sherlock said softly. Greg sighed and nodded allowing his eyes to slip shut as he prepared to start. After taking a few deep breaths, Greg looked down at John then up at his companions.

"Mycroft, Anthea, Sherlock; you have to be ready. I don't know where this will lead." Greg warned. Sherlock held a small crucifix and a silver rosary. Greg tried to insist that he carry a stake as well, but he had refused instead giving it Anthea, unable to kill his friend. He did, however, have multiple wards hidden in his Belstaff. The witch held the stake with ease, with her blade within reach ready and waiting for whatever was to come. Mycroft stood resolutely. He too was heavily warded. The Eye of Horus glinted on his lapel and the runes shone brightly on the handle of his umbrella. The ring on his right hand also shimmered eerily. He had pulled the glowing handle of his umbrella from the base revealing an ancient wand, which shone brightly and pulsed with powerful magic ready to strike.

Greg lit the incense and allowed it to spread for a moment letting the familiar scent ground him. He glanced at Sherlock's worried face and his eyes slid back to John's still form. It all came down to this. Greg then took a deep breath and began to chant, the relic around his neck pulsed with holy magic as he began the ritual. "Exaudi nos, Domine sancte, Pater omnipotens, aeterne Deus, et mittere digneris sanctum Angelum tuum de caelis, qui custodiat, foveat, protegat, visitet, atque defendat omnes habitantes in hoc habitaculo. Per Christum Dominum nostrum." Hear us, O holy Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God, and vouchsafe to send thy holy Angel from heaven, to guard, cherish, protect, visit and defend all that are assembled in this place: Through Christ our Lord. The candles in the Cathedral flickered ominously and lightening streaked across the night's sky followed by the roar of thunder. Greg paused and looked at John debating whether he was doing more harm than good. The enchanted wings over his back oscillated rapidly, one moment white, then the next, black, moving back and forth never settling.

Finish it. He thought as he plowed on. He slit his thumb deeply on the sharp edge of the crucifix of his silver rosary that pulsed brightly as it was infused with Greg's light. As his blood welled up, Greg allowed the heavy droplets to fall into the holy water font staining the holy water red. It shimmered softly casting a soft glow now also infused with his light. The wind howled as the rain beat against the stained glass windows. Out of the corner of his eye, Greg caught a flash of movement on the buttresses. The Gargoyles were awakening. They sensed the darkness stirring. Greg nearly stopped. This was a tightrope walk. The light and dark were doing battle within John and Greg was unsure which would emerge triumphant.

Greg resumed his chant "Vidi aquam egredientem de templo, a latere dextro, alleluia: et omnes ad quos pervenit aqua ista salvi facti sunt, et dicent, alleluia. Confitemini Domino, quoniam bonus: quoniam in saeculum misericordia ejus." I saw water flowing from the right side of the temple, alleluia; and all they to whom that water came were saved and they shall say alleluia. Praise the Lord, for he is good; for his mercy endureth forever. Greg then closed his eyes and raised his right hand dipping it into the font cupping the enchanted water and pouring it over John's back. The candles snuffed out leaving the cathedral pitch black, but for the glow of Mycroft's wand and the flicker of Anthea's crystals. They were the last things that Greg saw as dizziness overtook him and he fell unconscious to the floor.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Ego Te Absolvo

(I Absolve You)

Sherlock

"Greg!" Sherlock shouted in panic as he watched the priest crumple and fall. He lunged in the man's direction but was stopped by Mycroft's iron grip. Sherlock met his eyes and could not repress the shudder that ran through him as his brother's eyes glowed eerily infused with magic. It was one of the few times that Sherlock had seen the full extent of his brother's power on display.

"Wait!" He ordered as Anthea began to summon a circle of protection around Greg's limp form. The circle glowed brightly, a ghostly bluish white. Mycroft then raised his wand and waved it rhythmically casting an illumination spell. The wand pulsed and lit up the entire cathedral. Mycroft murmured another spell under his breath and protective runes appeared surrounding the three of them. Sherlock's eyes moved from Lestrade to John's back. The wings, they were white and shimmering softly.

"It worked," Sherlock murmured in disbelief. The ritual had been a last resort and as Anthea had put it; a lost cause. In the back of all of their minds, they had all assumed that it would fail.

Mycroft then handed Anthea his wand and whispered softly. "Hold the spells," before approaching Lestrade's unconscious form.

Sherlock looked on anxiously as Mycroft checked for a pulse. "Alive," He stated. "Very lucky, Sherlock. That ritual nearly killed him. It's left him weak, dangerously weak." Mycroft then began to chant softly casting yet another spell and pulling the ring from his finger and placing it on Greg's. It pulsed softly and a moment later Greg let out a weak moan as his eyelids fluttered opened for a moment. "That's it, Gregory, wake up." Mycroft urged softly. Greg whimpered softly and then fell silent as his eyes slipped shut again. "I hesitate to push him. The healing spell can only do so much. He needs rest in order to regain his strength and restore his soul." Mycroft said looking in Anthea's and Sherlock's direction. Sherlock's eyes moved away as an echoing moan escaped from John. Too soon, John shouldn't wake until nightfall tomorrow. "Stay in the circle Sherlock!" Mycroft ordered snapping his fingers causing his wand to catapult from Anthea's grip and into his open hand.

"Mycroft! Don't kill him! The wings, they're white. It worked." Sherlock pleaded. Mycroft glanced in his direction briefly meeting his stare with a wary look, before turning his attention back to John.

"John, do you hear me? Can you understand my words?" Mycroft asked as he pulled Greg's silver rosary from his cassock and held it in front of him like a shield; it glowed softly with holy magic still infused with the priest's light. "Sherlock, did Gregory tell you what to expect if the ritual was successful?" Mycroft asked as his wand pulsed brightly as Mycroft prepared to cast another spell.

"No, only that it would strengthen his grace enough to keep the darkness at bay." Sherlock replied now regretting not pressing Greg for more information at the time. None of them, not even Greg, had expected to get this far. They never thought it would work. It had been a last ditch effort, a result of Sherlock's heartfelt plea to a friend. John groaned louder and his eyes fluttered opened. Rather than their normal dark blue, they were now a mixture of blue and gold. They darted around anxiously taking in his surroundings before settling on Sherlock and then moving to Mycroft who continued to call John's name. John hissed and squinted averting his eyes away from the rosary's glowing crucifix. It was in that moment that Sherlock caught a glimpse of fangs. Sherlock felt his chest tighten painfully at the sight. Sherlock closed his eyes unable to continue to look at his friend. John, what have you become? The question echoed in his mind over and over. It may all be for naught. Greg had insisted that the white glow of the wings on John's back were evidence of light, but Sherlock was beginning to doubt the truth of Greg's words.

Anthea's voice pulled Sherlock from his dark spiraling thoughts. "You don't have a choice. You have to push him. It was the priest's his holy magic and light which saved John from falling to the darkness completely, Greg's the best chance we have at keeping him in control." She insisted looking his brother squarely in the eye. Mycroft grit his teeth, obviously conflicted as he stared at John looking worried and a bit awestruck.

He took a deep breath and then called to John once again. "John, do you understand my words?"


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Auribus Teneo Lupum

(Holding the wolf by the ears)

John

Hungry, John had never felt hunger like this. It was raw, gnawing, and all consuming. John felt an unfamiliar ache in his mouth as his newly formed fangs lengthened and the urge to feed strengthened. John breathed heavily trying to force it down. John opened and shut his eyes quickly and tried to focus. He could feel the darkness within him urging him to attack and gorge on as much blood as he could find, but there was still light within him as well. The enchanted tattoo on his back pulsed allowing John a brief reprieve from the hunger.

The memories then came flooding back. Moriarty, the pool, and the bite. Turning, he was turning. But John was missing something. There shouldn't be any grace left in him, he should have fallen to the darkness completely. John looked up and met Mycroft's steady gaze. He was still holding Greg's bloody rosary. It hurt John's eyes to look at it directly; he could only peer at it for a moment. John caught a glimpse of Greg's still form behind him. What had happened? Everything after the bite was a complete blank. For a moment, John thought the priest to be dead, but when he concentrated he could hear Greg's steady heart beat. "John, do you understand my words?" Mycroft asked for a third time as he held a wand, which pulsed with magic and power ready to strike him down. Let him do it, part of him thought. John would never earn all of his grace back now. He wasn't quite a vampire, yet no longer an angel. He was something else entirely. A strange unnamed creature stuck in limbo between the darkness and the light.

"Finish it!" John hissed. "Put me out of my misery." Mycroft's eyes narrowed and he seemed to hesitate. He backed up slowly and crouched down over Greg's still form placing a hand over his heart. The mage's hand glowed brightly and the light spread across the priest's body before fading away. Before John could urge him to kill him again, Greg moaned loudly and started to sit up slowly obviously still dazed. John stared at the priest momentarily distracted. John needed to know what happened. Had Greg done this to him? Show me, John thought. John concentrated causing his eyes to glow and a vision flashed before his eyes. Greg at the alter chanting in Latin, then anointing the holy water with his own blood and pouring it over John's back. The vision vanished quickly as the relic around Greg's neck pulsed brightly causing John's head to ache. "I don't know whether to curse you or thank you Greg." John whispered in a hoarse voice feeling exhausted suddenly. John bit back a groan as his stomach cramped painfully as the hunger rose again. John clutched his abdomen and clamped his jaw shut. He needed to feed. "Hungry," John ground out.

"Blood bank," Sherlock called out looking in Mycroft's direction. Mycroft shook his head.

"Newly turned require fresh blood Sherlock." Mycroft said looking torn and unsure. John could understand the feeling. He wasn't acting like a newly turned vampire. They were feral and ravenous, so crazed for blood they were willing to drink from anything, be it human or supernatural. John should have attacked immediately upon awakening desperate for blood.

"John, fight it. Please." Greg urged in a voice that was barely audible. The priest was pale and barely conscious. It was clear that the ritual had drained him, nearly to the point of death. All for what? John thought bitterly. John took a deep breath and tried to force the hunger back only to have it rise again causing his stomach to cramp painfully. Too much, it was too much to fight. The struggle must have shown on his face causing Greg to call to him gently. "John, come here." Greg beckoned softly, patting the ground gesturing for John to sit beside him. John did as the man asked and approached sitting down beside him causing Mycroft to tighten his grip on his wand. John didn't blame him. John didn't even trust himself as this point. He was teetering on the edge, barely holding on to his control.

Greg then pulled the relic from around his neck and placed it around John's. Before John could protest, the pendant fell over his heart and was followed quickly by a wave of vertigo causing his vision to tunnel in and out. John heaved as his stomach twisted painfully as the hunger rose and ebbed completely before finally settling. John closed his eyes as his head swam barely holding on to consciousness as holy magic spread over him. He felt the priest's fingers ghost over his forehead gently making the sign of the cross. "In nomine patris, et filii et spiritus sancti. Per quem haec omnia, Domine, semper bona creas, sanctificas, vivificas, benedicis, et praestas nobis." In the name of the father and of the son and the Holy Ghost. By whom, O Lord, Thou dost always create, sanctify, quicken, bless and bestow upon us all of these good things." Greg's weak voice faded in and out before John fell unconscious after the priest removed his fingers.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Malo Mori quam Foedari

(Death rather than Dishonor)

Greg

Greg bit back a groan as he fought to stay conscious. His vision tunneled and he swayed for a moment before feeling a weak pulse around his finger giving him enough strength to stay upright. His eyes moved to the ring on his finger, which glowed softly, it wasn't his, yet it seemed familiar. Greg's eyes moved to Mycroft who still wore and expression distrust and weariness. Greg's gaze moved to the bare ring finger of his hand and it clicked. It was Mycroft's ring. Greg felt a flare of surprise. "Suppose I should thank you," Greg said in a weak voice.

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement but frowned as his gaze drifted from Greg back to John who was still unconscious with Greg's relic glowing brightly around his neck. "Gregory, I hate to press you when you are already overexerted, but this matter must be addressed." Mycroft explained as he pointed his wand in John's direction before continuing. "What have you done to him? What has he become?"

Greg sighed unsure of how to answer, because, frankly, he wasn't sure. "I strengthened his grace, but it may not be enough, as to what he has become, something powerful which none of us has ever encountered before." Greg admitted. His eyes moved to John and he didn't know where to start. The relic couldn't stop the hunger indefinitely. It would be up to John. "He needs to feed. No amount of magic can change that fact. My relic, it merely bought us a bit of time. I had hoped that the ritual would prevent him from turning completely, but it didn't. What it did do was stop him from falling completely to the darkness. There is still light in him as well as angelic grace. It is what has kept him in control thus far. I loathe to say this, especially after all of this effort, but it may be kinder to…" Greg trailed off unable to go on as he looked at John.

The man was deathly pallid and looked deceased, but everyone knew better. John had become something unnamed; a cross between the light and the darkness. Greg knew it wasn't fair to judge him. John had done nothing wrong, he had not asked to be bitten, but there were still far too many unknowns for Greg's liking. "What ever you choose, make you decision quickly. My light, it has been weakened and I cannot use my holy magic any further until it returns to baseline, that will take time and rest. My relic, it's linked to my light and I will need it to fully restore my soul." Mycroft's frowned deepened as he took in the information, before he could reply Sherlock spoke in a furious voice.

"Mycroft, I will never forgive you. Do not harm him." Sherlock insisted as he moved out of the circle of protection against his brother's order with Anthea on his heels looking fit to be tied. He moved purposefully in front of John before looking at Greg with an expression, which was mixture of pain and betrayal, which caused Greg's heart to clench with guilt.

"How could you? How could you even suggest…" Sherlock asked in a pained voice. "I expected as much from Mycroft, but not you Greg." Mycroft opened his mouth to reply but Greg beat him to it.

"Sherlock, you're not objective. We don't know what John is capable of. I only want to give you all the options. I won't be able to help you any further until I regain my strength and that will take time." Greg replied refusing to look away despite his guilt. "I warned you that it might not work. I warned that it was dangerous not only for John, but for myself as well, but I did it anyway. I did it because you begged me, because you're my friend. I nearly lost my life. You don't have the right to judge me." Sherlock looked away seemingly speechless. Mycroft cleared his throat pointedly as Anthea pulled the ring from her finger and passed it to him allowing Mycroft to slip it on.

"Thank you, my dear." Mycroft murmured as the ring pulsed and glowed softly. Anthea hummed in response before turning to Greg.

"Well, it's because of your bleeding heart that we're in this mess. If you kept your mouth shut and never mentioned that bloody ritual, then we wouldn't be in this mess." She insisted causing Greg to frown as she tightened her grip on her enchanted blade.

"What is this? A bloody coup? I warned all of you. You went in with your eyes wide opened." Greg replied feeling hurt and abused. He had wanted to help and this was the thanks that he got? So be it. Greg didn't need their help. He twisted Mycroft's ring off his finger and shoved it into Anthea's hand. Once it was gone and Greg's vision tunneled, he realized his mistake too late. "My relic…" He was barely able to get the request out before losing consciousness once again.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Astra inclinant, sed non obligant

(The stars incline us, but they do not bind us)

Mycroft

Mycroft watched unsurprised as Lestrade lost consciousness. The ring had been the only thing keeping him going and when he took it off he had lost his battle. Mycroft knew that the priest needed his relic, but he dreaded what would happen when he removed it from John's neck. "I'll do it." Sherlock said and approached John before Mycroft could protest. Sherlock pulled the relic from John's neck and placed it around Lestrade's. The relic glowed softly and the light infused into the priest's body, but he still did not wake. The same could not be said for John, however. John groaned and began to stir. Mycroft once again tightened his grip in his wand preparing to strike. His brother may never forgive him, but he couldn't take the chance. John Watson was too dangerous. Lestrade had confirmed what he had suspected. John's eyes shifted to a golden hue and blinked at him almost in askance before closing as John's aura pulsed with power. Warded symbols appeared etching themselves across his bare torso. Mycroft stiffened at the sight. He had never seen such a thing. He was unsure of their origin; whether they were light or dark, but one thing was certain; they were powerful. He would need all of his strength for this.

Mycroft murmured a spell under his breath allowing his magic to peak. He would need all of his skill to accomplish this. "Sherlock, get out of the way." He ordered. Mycroft could feel the magic building as his wand pulsed; the colors wavering erratically resembling a kaleidoscope. Mycroft took a deep breath and let the magic flow through him. It heated the blood in his veins and buzzed ominously in his ears drowning out everything else, including his brother's protests. Mycroft rarely allowed his natural magic free reign, but this time, he deemed it necessary. He caught a glimpse of Anthea's shocked face, a mix of fear and awe, for not even she had seen him wheeled his full power. Mycroft could feel his brother's magic peaking as well, but it was a pale comparison and was no match for him. Mycroft raised his wand and cast his spell. The magic hit John at full force, but rather than kill him as expected, it ricocheted right back at him, plowing through his wards knocking him unconscious.

Sherlock

"Mycroft!" Anthea shouted in a horrified voice as she ran to his brother's side. Sherlock looked on in shock. He still couldn't believe what had just occurred. John had not only shielded himself against Mycroft's powerful magic, but also broken through his brother's powerful wards. Mycroft was alive, Sherlock could feel his magical presence, but he would be down for a while. It had taken an enormous amount of energy to mount that attack and his wards had not been able to stop his own magic from striking him down. It was very luck that John had simply deflected Mycroft's attack sending it back to him. If John had mounted an attack of his own, Mycroft would no doubt be dead. "You! I don't know what you are, what creature you've become, but you'll pay for that. I'll send you to hell where you belong." Anthea threatened pulling out the athame blade tucked into her belt.

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted catching her wrist. She hissed at him angrily. "Do you have a death wish? You saw what just happened."

"I suggested you listen to him, witch or you will end up much worse off than your lover." John claimed in a voice that was cold and detached. It lack any form of emotion and was without inflection. Sherlock could not repress the chill that ran down his spine as he looked at John's flat affect. "Sleep!" He commanded and Anthea dropped unconscious to the ground besides Mycroft. Sherlock looked down at the three of them. Mycroft, Lestrade and Anthea all unconscious on the floor, and completely helpless. John moved towards Lestrade stooping over his supine form. He sniffed the crook of his neck and sighed as his fangs elongated. "Hungry." He whispered. Sherlock felt his heart race as panic overtook him. No! He had to stop it.

"John, please! Don't! He's too weak. You'll kill him." Sherlock begged.

"But his light…his blood…I need it." John trailed off looking torn. At the mention of Greg's light, Sherlock eyes moved to the holy water font that still contained a small amount of the water that Greg had blessed and anointed with his own blood, which was still glowing softly, infused with Greg's light and holy magic.

"The water, John. Drink the water. Greg anointed it with his blood during the ritual." Sherlock urged and breathed a sigh of relief when John did as he requested scooping up the remaining water into his palm and drinking it with a sigh. Sherlock watched warily as John's eyes shifted from gold to blue and the wards across his torso faded away. As John turned to move down the stairs of the alter, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the shimmer white rendition of wings.

John looked down and a flush spread across his cheeks as he looked at the three sleeping figures on the floor. "My fault, it's my fault." Unlike before John's words were filled with emotion and laced with guilt. John once again stood over Greg and Sherlock came closer standing beside him. John knelt down and murmured a phrase in the soft lilting language that Sherlock now knew to be angelic and his hands glowed a brilliant pure white. He touched Greg's relic causing it to pulse brightly and a moment later Greg jolted upright with a startled gasp. "I'm sorry." John whispered, "Forgive me, Father for I have sinned


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Ad vitam aeternam

(To eternal life)

Greg

Greg was unable to mask his confusion as he stared into John's tortured gaze. John's eyes were blue and his aura shimmered softly with white light. Greg could feel the pull of holy magic infusing through him as his relic worked quickly, impossibly so, to restore what power Greg had used. How? Greg's eyes drifted down to his relic, which John held gently in his hands, which glowed with brilliant white light. Holy magic, it was pouring from John and into Greg using the relic as a conduit. Greg closed his eyes feeling his holy magic being restored. "Greg, you're a median? You can soul gaze?" John asked in a soft voice. Greg nodded unable to calm his racing heart. He was still unable to believe the sight before him. In a matter of moments, John had shifted from dark to light. John continued his questioning ignoring Greg's shock and confusion. "What has become of my grace? Do I still have a soul? If I die, will I cease to exist or will I be sent straight to the bowels of hell?" Greg could glimpse a hint of fangs as John sighed softly looking at Greg with agonized uncertainty.

"Suicide is a mortal sin." The response slipped from Greg's lips without thought a tenet so engrained within him it came naturally. Greg caught a ghost of a smile on John's face before it slipped away as he murmured softly in response.

"Yes, Father. I'm well aware. However, does it matter at this point? Is there anything within me worth saving?" Greg swallowed and debated his answer. To gaze into someone's soul was the most invasive thing that one could do to a person. It was also dangerous. Depending on the subject and what lay hidden within them, it could be beautiful or ugly, light or dark or something in between. It could leave the gazer blind and literally drive them insane. Greg could still recall the fate of median who had tried it in desperation when her daughter was killed by a demon. The woman had been left blinded and stark raving mad. Before Greg could answer, Sherlock spoke.

"John! Of course you are worth saving." Sherlock insisted desperately moving closer. The action prompted John to hiss as his fangs lengthened ominously and his eye's shifted to gold.

"How do you know? You can't see it. You can't feel it. The darkness, it's eating me alive! I'd rather be dead than become that! I need to know! What am I?" John's aura shimmered and shifted from white to a muted grey. "I'm bloody starving!" John took a few deep breaths and his aura shifted back to white and his eyes lightened once again to their normal sky blue as his eyes met Greg's desperately. "Greg, please. I know what you've done already and the risks that you've taken to try to help, but you didn't ask. You didn't give me a choice. Now, I stuck like this, in limbo, I need to know. It's my soul and my choice, give me the information I need to make it."

Greg nodded. John was right. Greg hadn't asked. The thought had never entered his mind. He tried to warn Sherlock of the risks, but his words had fallen on deaf ears and now in the end it was John who was left to suffer. Greg didn't know who was more to blame himself or Sherlock. It didn't really matter. Greg would make amends the only way he could. He would look into what remained of John's soul. He owed him that much. His light and holy magic was now fully restored thanks to John. He would try. "You're right. It's your choice. I'll help you make it." Greg whispered.

"Thank you, Greg. I wish I could reassure you that what you see won't hurt you, but I can't." Greg nodded well aware of the risk that he was taking.

"Close your eyes, John." Greg whispered and John complied. Greg placed his hand over John's closed eyelids and closing his own eyes before he whispered "Et cum spiritu tuo."


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Et Veritas Domini manet in aeternum

(The truth of the Lord endureth forever)

When Greg opened his eyes again, he struggled to anchor himself. He had slipped deep into the astral plane and was now gazing at the tattered remains of John Watson's soul. Greg felt his eyes burn with unshed tears as he took it in. It was beautiful. The angelic grace shimmered softly and soft melodic chanting pulsed from its very being. Pure light and grace, the likes of which Greg had never seen before. This was what bible verses and arias lauded. "Oh, John…it's worth saving." Greg whispered in a voice hoarse with emotion. The knowledge should have filled Greg with relief. It hadn't been for not. Greg felt his hopes sink as he took in what surrounded the angelic grace, the very light of John Watson's soul. Darkness cloaked it weaving its tendrils around and through it, attempting to choke it out of existence. The screeches of demons and other dark creatures bubbled up as the darkness strengthened and the light flickered and weakened in the wake of the attack. Greg wanted to do something to smite the darkness, but here in the astral plane, he was impotent. Only able to observe and not act. The scream of a small girl caused Greg to look up and he was greeted by a vision.

A demon attacked attempting to devour her soul, but before it could strike a bright light appeared. An angel appeared from within the light. Greg knew instinctively that it was John and watched in awe as he struck the demon down saving the young girl. What happened next shook Greg to his very core. The Arch Angel Michael appeared and used John's own sword against him. He struck him down burying his sword into his shoulder. This was how John had fallen from grace? Saving an innocent soul? It seemed so unfair and Greg wanted to ask John the reason, but was powerless to do so.

The vision morphed and Greg watched as the angelic grace fell into John Watson who lay dying on the battlefield deep in the desert of Afghanistan. The missing pieces fell into place. Greg knew the rest, army doctor wounded in Afghanistan, medical discharge with a meager pension causing him to look for a flat mate leading him to Sherlock Holmes. The rest was history. The vision faded away and Greg looked once again looked upon John Watson's tattered soul. The darkness seemed so vast and the light so weak, yet Greg could not help but cling to hope. For John Watson had proven more than once that he was nothing if not a survivor. It would be up to him. The darkness was much too strong to banish, it may, however be fought and controlled. There was a chance, albeit a slim one. Greg closed his eyes and slipped out of the plane. When he opened his eyes again he stared into John Watson's eyes, now a mixture of gold and blue. Greg repeated the words that he had whispered into the plane. "Oh, John…it's worth saving." John's eyes filled with tears and pink streaks appeared in their wake. Vampire's cried bloody tears, but John's were a diluted. "You've got to fight, it is too strong to banish, but you can control it. You must control it. The darkness, it's choking your grace, trying to kill it." John hissed in anger with the revelation.

"How Greg?" John asked. "How do I control it?"

Greg took a deep breath. "Feed. Once your hunger is controlled, it will be easier to fight. I cannot lie to you John. It won't be easy. The darkness is much stronger than the light, but I have faith in you and so does Sherlock. We will help you anyway we can." Greg promised. John nodded looking a bit overwhelmed but determined. Before Greg thought better of it, the question slipped from his lips. "You saved her. Why were you struck down? You saved an innocent."

"Guardians are not to interfere only observe and report." John said in a hollow voice. "I knew the consequences, but I couldn't let it happen. It wasn't right. All the others were taken naturally, but not her. She was innocent." John's eyes moved to Mycroft and Anthea who were still unconscious. "I should wake them." John murmured looking between Greg and Sherlock for confirmation.

"Mycroft will be down for a while John, it would be best left alone. You may do more harm than good. Anthea, on the other hand, you must release your command. I must warn you though, she will likely not be pleased with you." Sherlock explained with a haunted look in his eyes as he looked between Greg and John. Greg could understand why Sherlock appeared so shaken. Soul gazing was an intimate act causing a temporary intertwining of mind and soul. Greg had been very lucky. It could have gone horribly wrong.

"Thank you, Greg…your light, it's so pure and so rare for a mortal. I want to give you something." Greg opened his mouth to refuse, for John owed him nothing. Greg had merely granted his request. "No, take it." John said firmly digging deep into the pocket of his jacket and pulling out a perfectly formed pure white feather. "What's left of my wings…I want you to have it. It will act as a powerful ward and conduit for your holy magic." Greg shook his head.

"No, John! You keep it. You'll need it. You're about to wage an epic battle and need all the help that you can get." John sighed and looked at Greg with tired eyes before replying.

"I wish I had your faith. I'll keep it on one condition." Greg raised a questioning eyebrow. "If I lose my battle to the darkness. Keep it safe on hallowed ground." Greg nodded. That was a promise that he was willing to make.

"I'll pray that won't be necessary." Greg said sincerely. John nodded accepting the truce.

John spared a look in Anthea's direction before speaking. "Wake!"

She slowly began to stir with a groan. "Greg, watch her. I don't want her attacking John. I need to explore a few options." Sherlock insisted as he picked up his mobile and dialed. "Molly, I need a favor. Can we meet you at Bart's?"


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Mors Mihi Lucrum

(Death to me is a reward)

Molly

Molly sucked in a horrified breath as Sherlock told her the tale. John Watson was a fallen angel who had been bitten and turned. That should have been the end of it as far as Molly was concerned. John Watson should have been staked before he rose, but Sherlock had recruited Greg's help and the priest had performed an ancient ritual further complicating the matter. There was still light in John according to Sherlock but there was darkness as well. John needed to feed. He needed blood and that was where Molly came into play. "You have access to the blood bank." Sherlock pressed urgently.

"It won't work." Molly insisted and was frankly surprised that Sherlock was willing to consider it. But, it seemed that Sherlock was willing to do nearly anything for John Watson. The thought made Molly pause for a moment, was there something between them that she wasn't seeing? She hoped not for both of their sakes. It would lead to nothing but heartbreak. For as much as Molly wished to help, she knew it was hopeless.

"Molly, please." Sherlock pleaded. His desperation was clear. Molly sighed feeling her resolve falter. She never could resist Sherlock Holmes.

"Fine, but I warned you. This is a hopeless case." Molly insisted determined to point out the obvious. She never was one to hold up false hope.

"That's what Greg said. Lost cause, yet the ritual worked. Not fully, but enough to save John's grace." Sherlock retorted. Molly sighed unwilling to argue. They would know soon enough.

"What about Greg? Not to mention Mycroft and Anthea? What do they think of this?" Molly pressed on. Sherlock mirrored her sigh and replied.

"Irrelevant." Molly huffed not about to give up. She needed to know what she was getting into.

"Hardly. What did they say? Greg, in particular." Molly needled. Sherlock chuckled causing her to frown. She failed to see the levity in this situation. But then, Sherlock always had possessed a rather macabre sense of humor.

"Going by the look on Greg's face as he gazed at John's soul, it was a sacred and beautiful sight. Lestrade has seen more darkness than I and is not one to be easily awestruck, yet he looked…I can't quite describe it…but he just said 'It's worth saving.' I trust his judgment and so does John." Molly was once again struck speechless. Greg had soul gazed? Only the strongest medians were capable of that. She couldn't repress a shudder at the thought. Lucky, so lucky, it could have gone terribly wrong. Perhaps, there was a chance.

"He has a death wish." Molly stated bluntly referring to Greg. "He could have been driven mad or killed pulling a stunt like that. You owe him Sherlock. Both you and John."

"I know." Sherlock said in a soft voice. Molly hummed happy that Sherlock was willing to make that concession. "Molly, can you…" Sherlock trailed off his words heavy with implication.

"No, Greg may have a death wish, but I do not. I can get you the blood, but that's as far as I'll go." She insisted coldly. Conjuring the dead was one thing, but summoning darkness was another. It was a line Molly refused to cross.

"Very well." Sherlock replied and rung off leaving Molly to wonder what she had gotten herself into.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Acta non Verba

(Deeds, not words)

John

John moved silently deep into the bowels of the hospital with Sherlock on his heels. It was late, nearly midnight and all was quiet in the morgue. John looked around scanning for signs of life, there were none, besides the steady beat of Sherlock's heart. Molly had agreed to help them, much to John's surprise. John idly wondered what Sherlock had said to convince her. Molly was a bit of a mystery. She should have been dark; nearly all of her kind were; yet she had chosen the light. John hoped that he could do the same.

John's head snapped up as the sound of footsteps approached. The door creaked opened and Molly Hooper appeared with a blood bag in hand looking very wary. John could hardly blame her. He tilted his head as he gazed at her puzzled by the strange aura surrounding her. It was different from any that he had seen since he was turned. Greg's was a cool blue infused with holy magic and light, while Mycroft's was a soft green simmering with his natural and self-taught magic. Sherlock's was a brilliant gold a mixture of his magic, knowledge and experience. Anthea's was soft lavender, feminine and magical. Molly's was a dark brown, muted and lack luster. John wasn't sure what make of that. John wished he could gaze upon his own aura, but his reflection was gone along with so many other things that were stripped from him when he turned.

John took the blood bag from Molly gratefully. "Thank you." John murmured softly. His voice echoed in the nearly empty morgue. Molly nodded stiffly moving to stand behind Sherlock. They watched anxiously as John pierced the bag with his fangs and sucked taking a large swallow. It tasted wrong, cold for one, but even more off putting than the frigid temperature was rancid taste. His stomach cramped and John couldn't help but heave as he vomited up the blood. John whimpered in frustration as the hunger rose once again. Blood, he needed fresh blood. "Please, I'm so hungry." John pleaded staring at Sherlock unable to tare his eyes away from his jugular. John knew he must look monstrous with his fangs fully elongated and his mouth stained with blood. Sherlock stared at John seemingly considering his options.

"I tried to tell you that it needs to be fresh from the vein." Molly insisted looking at John warily. "I understand you both wanting to try the bagged blood first, with time and proper weaning vampires can adjust to it. I have to say John, I've never seen this level of control in a newly turned vampire." Molly admitted looking perplexed. John closed his eyes as his stomach twisted painfully, he couldn't wait much longer. Even with Greg's help, his control wasn't endless. The darkness was still within him and with it came the hunger. It would not be ignored any longer. Seemingly sensing his thoughts, Sherlock spoke seriously.

"The wrist. The radial vein is much smaller than the jugular. It will give you more control over the amount of blood flow. John, I need you to be careful, there is still a risk of exsanguination. You mustn't take too much. When I ask you to stop, you must listen." Sherlock explained looking worried. "Can you do that?" John nodded eagerly. His eyes moved to Sherlock's pale wrist easily spotting the blue vein feeling his eyes pupils dilate in anticipation of finally feeding. John took Sherlock's arm in his hands bringing his left wrist to his mouth and biting down piercing the vein with ease. Sherlock hissed and instinctively attempted to pull away for a moment, but John held tight drinking in deep pulls moaning in pleasure as his hunger was finally satisfied. Sherlock's blood tasted heavenly. "John, stop." Sherlock called. More, He needed more. John left a rush of power mixed with exhilaration. John was so focused on feeding that he failed to notice that his fingernails had lengthened into sharp talons and his eyes had shifted from a mixture of blue and gold to pure amber. "John!" Sherlock shouted giving his hair a yank breaking John's singular focus on his body's hunger and causing him to release Sherlock's wrist. John then licked the wound sloppily causing it to close quickly. He flushed feeling embarrassed at his lack of control, but John sighed in relief as the constant ache in his stomach finally vanished.

"Thank you," John murmured feeling relaxed and replete. His eyes started to drift shut as exhaustion overtook him seemingly unaware of how close he had come to killing his friend.

Molly

"Sherlock, are you all right?" Molly asked as her eyes moved warily from Sherlock to John who was now slumbering deeply oblivious to her stare. She couldn't hold back a shudder as she gazed upon him. Both she and Sherlock watched transfixed as his elongated fangs retracted nearly completely from sight leaving only the tips visible with John's lips slightly parted. The talons also disappeared and a pink flush entered John's once pallid cheeks. Molly blushed as she noticed a tell tale bulge in John's trousers.

"Yes," Sherlock answered pulling Molly's attention away from John and back to him. Molly frowned as she looked at the hunter. He was deathly pale, but more worrisome than his complexion was the fear in his eyes. He could sense it too; the darkness.

"The darkness, Sherlock. I can sense it and so can you. Otherwise, you would be looking at John with terror in your eyes. John's not the same. He never will be. I tried to warn you…" Molly insisted as she trailed off as Sherlock shook his head in denial. No, Sherlock needed to see the truth. He needed to see the risks. He was nearly exsanguinated a moment ago. "Don't turn a blind eye, it's more than just the hunger, Sherlock. The darkness in him is strong, much stronger than his grace. Its pull is powerful and will be difficult to resist; lust, avarice, envy, gluttony, sloth, pride, and wrath. What's more, we still don't know what he is capable of. What the true extent of his supernatural abilities are, as well as his strengths and weaknesses. Whatever he has become; he is extraordinarily powerful. He broke through your brother's wards. I fear John Watson is fighting a losing battle. He had already fallen before the bite and was trying to earn redemption and with it his place back in heaven…" Sherlock held up a hand to silence her before she could go on.

"Yes! Redemption. What of redemption? Forgiveness? He still has free will! He can choose his own path. Purity, temperance, generosity, integrity, composure, charity, humility." Sherlock insisted as he listed the seven holy virtues. But the words lacked confidence. Molly sighed unsure of what to say. Sherlock had a point. There was still light in John and his free will was still present. He had not been enthralled, but it would be an uphill battle. Was it even safe to allow John to wage it?


End file.
